


Outlaw

by AsteraceaeBlue



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Robin Hood, F/M, Sherlolly - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-19
Updated: 2014-12-19
Packaged: 2018-01-09 07:41:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 41,534
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1143327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AsteraceaeBlue/pseuds/AsteraceaeBlue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His brother is fighting in the Holy War and there are villains at home in Huntingdon</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MizJoely](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MizJoely/gifts), [nocturnias](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nocturnias/gifts).



The smell of melting wax and smoke filled the nose of Sherlock Holmes as he sat in his favorite chair in the library, eyes closed and hands tucked under his chin. He reclined into the brocade fabric. His nostril twitched at the scent, only slightly distracted from cataloguing the new information he had absorbed from the Latin chemist's text he had acquired, quite luckily. Another candle must have snuffed it. He could pick a more well-lit room for his readings and musings, he supposed, but the library suited him. Large, heavy curtains covered the one rounded, corner window and the rest was shelves of books and parchment and stone walls covered in tapestry. It was truly the most worthwhile room in the whole manor.

"M'Lord, there is news of the Earl of Huntingdon."

The words sliced through his thoughts like a blade, bringing his musings to a frustrating halt. The words themselves were enough to set him on edge, hearing the servant boy refer to his brother as though he were some stranger never known to their household. The growing deference to himself, the overuse of 'Lord' when he was addressed, increasingly made his lip curl as it became apparent those around him were already resigning themselves to a transition of power. Sherlock may not have felt any great filial love for his brother, but he would not abide the attitude that Mycroft could be considered as good as dead, his bones bleaching in the Arabian Desert.

"What news?" he ground out.

The boy started and Sherlock smiled inwardly. At twenty years of age, his voice had already deepened to an intimidating timbre and he enjoyed using it to his advantage.

"The enemy has proved strong, m'Lord," the boy squeaked out. "His Highness' army is said to be weakened."

"Said by whom?"

"Returning soldiers, m'Lord," the boy said. "Many have been sent home, too injured to fight. They say the Earl stayed on with weakened numbers. They say only God's mercy will have saved them. They say -"

"God has nothing to do with it," Sherlock said furiously, standing from his chair and dramatically sweeping his green velvet cape behind him as he swept past the servant. The boy sputtered behind him.

"But m'Lord, surely you believe God will be on our side?"

Sherlock stopped abruptly and turned a sharp eye on the boy.

"Every army believes God is on their side, even the Moors," he told him evenly. "The side that waits for His assistance crumbles to the side that makes their own miracles. You would do well to remember that. The crusades are a failed endeavor and anyone who tries to tell you otherwise is an idiot."

Without waiting for a response, he left the room and glided purposefully through the main hall, his boots echoing on the stone. It had been two years since his brother had left Anglia for the war with the Moors, recruited by the king himself to leave his duties as Earl and lead an army. That was the price to pay for being counselor in court, one of the most powerful and intelligent men in the land, and a fighter. If it had been Mycroft on the throne, the war would not even be occurring. He was intelligent enough to know when losses were to be cut. Regrettably, he owed all duty to the crown.

And he left his little brother to manage what was left behind.

Sherlock took on the duties with reluctance, but carried it well out of a respect for Mycroft that he would never admit to a single soul. Though he refused to move into the castle. The manor house was his home and there he would stay. Far less to scatter his attention when he was already struggling with the mundane day to day business of being the stand-in to the Earl. Fortunately for everyone involved, Mycroft had successfully coaxed him away from the frantically hushed use of alkaloids before his leaving, though the urge remained from time to time. Disaster would have ensued were it not for that.

"I'm out for the afternoon," he called to whatever servant may have been in the vicinity as he strode out the entrance to the manor and onto the lane.

The day was fine and a warm breeze blew down the main road, making his tousled hair even more unruly. He preferred walking when he could, finding it more conducive to thinking. Nearby lords and ladies were often scandalized with his 'peasant-like' behavior, but he couldn't be brought to care much about it when he knew what he did about them. Particularly whose bedchambers they were all rotating into.

It was a mere two miles into town and once he reached the edges it was easy to spot the flurry of activity around the newly returned soldiers. Many had the vacant eyes of individuals who had seen too much. They were lucky compared to those few who had survived missing a limb. Or rather, missing a finger or bit of an arm. Those who could not walk did not come back, Sherlock noted again with a grimace.

"Lord Sherlock."

He turned to see Sheriff Lestrade walking towards him, his grey cloak billowing out behind him and his black boots covered in mud.

"Chasing that band of young thieves to the river again?" he observed.

Lestrade stopped mid stride and gave a surprised laugh.

"You could pry the secrets out of a mute," he said, shaking his head.

"The mutes are often most eager to share their secrets," Sherlock mused. "It's the ones that can talk and choose falsehoods that you should worry about. The trees."

"What?"

"Look up the next time you run after them," Sherlock advised, looking down at the mud caked boots. "You're too busy with the ground."

"I offer again to put you in my employ. Just say the word."

"Perhaps when I am not occupied with running a county."

They walked together towards the group of haggard soldiers, surrounded by curious children and wary villagers. The town friar and women of the cloth were administering food and clean linens, no doubt encouraging the men to find good solid work as soon as possible. Sherlock's eye landed on a man close by, perhaps six years older than himself, shorter, with light hair. He looked just slightly less hollow than the rest, shifting the bowl of stew in his hands and looking about with a set mouth. He shuffled awkwardly as he stood, trying to balance the bowl and a crutch against his side.

"Unfortunate for a surgeon to wind up wounded," Sherlock commented with a pointed look at the man's leg. His eyes traveled up to his torso. "Though it's your shoulder that took the blade. Interesting."

"How…how in God's name did you know?..."

"You carry that shoulder a bit higher than the other, common indication of damaged tissue and subconsciously tensing from the wound. Not to mention the arm is not held correctly, almost as though it still pains you to straighten it. As to your being a surgeon, no insult intended, but you do not fit the physical specifications of a soldier of his Highness' army."

"I fought," the man said defensively.

"No one said you didn't," Sherlock replied with a hint of a smile.

The man gaped at him for a moment before the corner of his mouth turned up.

"You'll hang for a witch if you're not careful," he said. "That was truly magic."

"Not a bit. There are many reasons I may hang, but witchcraft will not be one of them."

"John Watson," the man said, holding out his hand in greeting.

"Sherlock Holmes," he said, taking the offered hand firmly. A look of recognition crossed the older man's face.

"Brother to the Earl," John said. "I'm sorry we could not bring you better news, sir."

"Don't start with titles and pleasantries, please, it's unbecoming," Sherlock instructed. He nodded towards the sheriff. "Sheriff Lestrade. Keeps the peace well enough in my land."

"Honored," John said with a tilt of his head which Lestrade returned.

"You are not from Huntingdon?" Sherlock ventured.

"No, though the last I knew I had an uncle here," John informed him, looking a bit grieved. "Ran a chemist's shop. I find out this morning that he is two years dead."

"As are your chances of a position with him," Sherlock stated.

"You remain very intuitive," John said with a resigned sigh.

Sherlock regarded the man for a few moments. With a wounded shoulder and a limp, he hardly stood a fair chance on his own and could very likely turn beggar in a few years' time if luck was not on his side. Fortunately for John Watson, Sherlock was quite adept at fortuitous situations.

"Can you walk a mile?" he asked, though he was fairly certain of the answer.

"As long as it's not towards the desert, I could walk a hundred," John said.

Sherlock nodded and turned on his heel, keeping his usually swift gait to a more reasonable speed to allow the surgeon to keep up. John offered a quick goodbye to Lestrade before hurrying after him. He headed out of the square and down the main road that was lined on one side with pasture and on the other with woodland.

"Master Hooper has a practice and is invaluable to Huntingdon," he informed his companion. "An ingenious physician, but sadly the only one within a day's ride."

"And he is looking for a partner?"

"If his belly aching in town has been any indication, yes."

The walk went surprisingly quickly, with John keeping pace and looking less tired as they moved and talked. Sherlock informed him of the important aspects of town as well as the surrounding areas, pointing to each cottage and house as they passed by and providing intimate details of the dwellers. In no time at all, they were leaving the main road and walking up a short path to a large brick farmhouse, scrubbed bright and surrounded by trees heavy with late summer leaves. A few chickens clucked in the yard and somewhere a dog barked.

"The Hooper farm," Sherlock explained, marching right up to the door. "His wife passed several years ago and has just the one child left to him."

He rapped on the door to the farmhouse and they immediately heard the rapid footfalls of someone rushing to the door. The heavy wood was thrown back and they were met with the youthful face of a girl of sixteen, wide brown eyes looking at them in surprise as she hurriedly swept her wild, long hair away from her face. Her pale pink gown mimicked the fashion of the day, though the sleeves were shortened and tightened for practicality, the bodice was higher than most young ladies' and the hem showed signs of time spent outside. Overall, the effect was rather childlike despite the figure of the young women inside the fabric.

"Ah, Margaretta," Sherlock said with familiarity. "Is your father at home?"

"Yes," she replied quickly. "He's just down to his library at the moment. Shall I fetch him for you, Sher – ahm, s-sir…m'Lord?"

"Presently, yes," Sherlock said with a quick smile. "And do remember to invite us in."

"Right, yes, of course."

The poor girl nearly tripped over her skirts backing up to allow them room to come in, looking grateful to flee on the spot as the housemaid took over in showing the two men to the sitting room and offering food and drink. John chuckled as they settled on a plush lounge in front of a warming fire.

"Bit of a nervous thing, isn't she?" he commented.

"The maid? No, I should think not."

"No, the girl."

"Margaretta," Sherlock corrected. "Like a baby deer from the moment they first tightened the laces around her waist two years ago. I've known her since childhood."

"And that's an excuse for talking so indelicately about her?" John said with a bit of embarrassment. Sherlock furrowed his brow.

"Indelicately?" he asked, confused.

The question was left unanswered as the master of the house entered the room, a white smock tied around his linen shirt and dark trousers. He had the same warm brown eyes as his daughter, though his light hair had begun to turn silver. He made a neat, cheerful bow to them as he approached.

"My Lord," he said happily. "It is an honor. What brings you on your visit this day?"

"I've heard mention that you are in need of an assistant for your practice, Hooper," Sherlock said, gesturing for the physician to sit.

"That's quite right," the older gentleman said as he did so. "With our county growing, my attentions are stretched thin. My Molly tries to help, bless her, but there's only so much a girl can do, smart as she is."

"Understandable," Sherlock nodded. He then tilted his head towards his companion. "John Watson, recently home from his Majesty's war where he acted as surgeon."

Master Hooper's eyes lit up at the news and he looked to John with interest.

"And would you be looking for a position, sir?" he asked.

"If it would please you, I would be indebted," John said, straightening up in all sincerity.

"Wonderful," Hooped clapped his hands together. "Marvelous! Well, sir, well, I imagine you are tired from your day, I do not wish to flood you with my words until you are refreshed. Shall we meet in the morning to discuss the whole of it?"

At Sherlock's cue, John and Hooper stood, shaking hands congenially.

"That would be very good," the surgeon said with a smile.

With goodbyes said, John and Sherlock were shown out. They had barely made it to the road when a light voice called out.

"M'Lord!"

They turned to see Margaretta traipsing after them and holding some bundle of plants and a small white pouch in her hand. She reached them, cheeks tinged pink, and held the bundle out to Sherlock.

"The fennel and blackberry you wanted. Also the willow bark. Do be careful with your experiments. A few blackberry leaves should soothe the burns."

With that, she made a modest curtsey and turned back to the house. John turned a curious eye on his new companion.

"Experiments?"

"Hardly anything to worry about. Shall we?"

* * *

The late summer sun was growing large on the horizon when they ambled back to the manor house, throwing an almost blinding light onto the stone edifice. It was not enough to blind Sherlock to the sight of his brother's steward and counselor, James Moriarty, standing at the entrance and looking bored with life as always in his crimson tunic and black velvet mantle, twisting the garnet ring on his finger. A squire stood nearby, the reins of Moriarty's roan stallion in his hands.

"M'Lord," Moriarty said, taking the minimal effort to bow before resuming his casual stance. "You have no doubt heard the news from the war."

"Indeed, and so have you, or why else would you be here?" Sherlock drawled, striding quickly by the other man and towards the door to his home. It was opened on cue by one of his servants as he approached.

"It is so, you are correct," Moriarty replied, following. "I find myself in the position of needing to offer you counsel on a certain matter -"

Sherlock swung around suddenly as he and John made their way inside, blocking Moriarty in the arch of the doorway.

"I don't recall inviting you in," he said curtly.

The steward flicked his eyes over Sherlock's face, his gaze cold for a moment before morphing into an expression of neutrality. His eyes remained dark, distant.

"There is a matter that is of the utmost importance…m'Lord."

"It can wait til the morrow," Sherlock said firmly. "I am tired and in need of food."

He nodded to his servant who promptly shut the door and bolted it. His servants were nothing if not accommodating to his whims of impropriety.

"Dinner, please, Sam," he instructed his servant. "In the parlour. Ale as well."

"Very good, sir," Sam said, turning to procure the requested items.

John followed quickly as Sherlock led him through the entrance hall and into the great hall, passing quickly by a grand, long table, cold fireplace, and several rich tapestries. Through another door and small hall and they were in a comfortable room situated with grand chairs, side tables, and many decorations. Several large windows looked out onto extensive grounds, dropping off into the woods. A roaring fire was going in the stone fireplace, keeping the room perfectly warm with the cool of evening. Sherlock crossed to a high backed chair and began to unfasten the clasps of his cloak.

"Your lodgings shall be here until you find something suitable for yourself," Sherlock told John as he removed the cloak and draped it lazily over the back of the chair. He sat down and propped his boots on a stool by the fire, slouching and indicating that John should make himself comfortable. "Stay as long as you desire. The place has been far too empty with just myself."

"No lady of the house, then?" John asked as he abandoned his own cape and mimicked Sherlock's repose.

Sherlock snorted and pushed at the sleeves of his linen shirt.

"Not if I can help it."

"It would make the place less empty," John said with a smirk.

"And more tedious. I find most women to be far too concerned with trivial things to be of any use or diversion in my home," he said simply. "No, it is my brother's duty as Earl to produce a family. Not mine."

"An interesting position."

"Not one you share, I gather?"

"No, I can't say that I do," John said amiably. "But each man is to live his life as he sees fit."

Sherlock looked at him with happy regard. Footsteps sounded in the hall and Sam and an older woman with a kind face and greying hair appeared, carrying platters of roast chicken, potatoes, bread, and apples and tankards of ale. Though Sam delivered the meal with respectful silence, the woman hovered in a motherly way as she made sure they had everything they needed.

"A new friend, Sherlock?" she asked with a smile.

"John Watson. He'll be taking a position with Master Hooper," he said in easy explanation.

"Oh that's very nice indeed," she said happily before leaving the room.

"Martha," Sherlock said to fill John in, nodding after her. "She used to be my nurse when I was young. I kept her on when her husband proved to be less than suitable."

The supper was shared over tales of the war and discussion of all things outside of Anglia. Sherlock found him to be a most agreeable companion, sharing in an interest of foreign cultures without the dire loyalty to the crown that most people possessed. It was enough to take his mind off the worry over the war and his brother's safety.

The next morning, John hurried off to the Hooper farm just after sunrise, eager to be onto the promise of a position. Sherlock dressed and breakfasted late, staying in the hall to linger over his spiced wine. When Sam entered to announce Moriarty, he regretted lingering quite so long. He had no choice but to receive the man.

"M'Lord," Moriarty entered with the same cool manner, a parchment tucked under his arm. "With the news of the turn of the war, I'm afraid we can no longer put off this conversation."

"Oh God, get on with it," Sherlock groaned, closing his eyes in annoyance.

"Your brother the Earl has no family, no heir. You stand to inherit."

"He's not dead yet."

"Of course he's not," Moriarty said with the grimy air of veiled sarcasm that Sherlock hated. "But we should be prepared in the event that something happens. And, God forbid, if something were to happen to you -"

Sherlock's eyes snapped open at that, at once on high alert and focused on the man standing in his home.

"What on earth would happen to me?" he demanded.

Moriarty gave an affected little shrug, looking the innocent.

"If your Lordship has no plans to take a wife, arrangements need to be made."

"How dare you discuss my personal intentions," Sherlock growled, standing up to his full height. "You are dismissed."

"I only suggest -"

"Out!" he roared, flinging his hand towards the hall entrance.

To his great dismay, Moriarty remained calm, looking pityingly at him before his mouth turned up in a wry grin and he slowly walked away.


	2. Chapter 2

The two months that followed found Sherlock and John settled into a comfortable routine. John would spend his days as partner to Master Hooper, with Sherlock dropping in when his time allowed. When not occupied with doctoring, Sherlock would engage John in assisting with his experiments. At first slightly wary of the reckless way Sherlock would utilize fire and other methods to extract oils and vapors from plant and mineral, John eventually grew used to the experimentation. True to Molly Hooper's words, Sherlock was often heedless to the dangers of his work and on more than one occasion would send up a string of language John had not heard since the battlefield, spending the evening nursing burns. The only thing that continued to startle him was Sherlock's custom of practicing his archery in the great hall when the weather proved too unfavorable to be outside. He looked twice before stepping foot into the room when it was raining.

Sherlock was pleased to have someone around who tolerated, if not admired, his habits and activities. It was most encouraging to see John's health and constitution improve in his presence, slowly shirking the use of a crutch and regaining confidence. He was also glad of the excuse to accompany John to the Hooper farm, as Molly's work with her father had limited her ability to bring him useful herbs and plants. She really did have a knack for knowing exactly what he was in need of; the only girl he had known who had learned to read and write and put it to use. If only she could manage to bring them their wine in the conservatory without stumbling over herself. She had always been an awkward girl, but her nerves had increased ever since her dresses had taken a womanly shape. Of course, that would be the kind of observation John would turn red at and huff something about indecency.

The day that found Sherlock stepping outside of his duties as leader of the county started with Molly Hooper. After breakfasting, he felt the need for fresh air, having spent the past two days shut in reading. His ramble took him to the woods, observing the world around him. The sound of humming reached his ears and he quickly looked around for the source. He caught sight of her long hair, tied neatly back with a white ribbon, as she knelt on the ground. Her body was obscured by a fawn brown cloak, but he could see her delicate arm reaching out to pull dandelions from the ground in front of her and place them in her basket.

When he was nearly upon her and she hadn't noticed his presence, he cleared his throat.

She spun around, almost upsetting her basket, her hand to her chest as it rose and fell rapidly.

"Molly," he greeted.

"Sherlock," she said with a laugh. "You frightened me half to death."

He ignored the intimate use of his name, finding that he enjoyed the sound of it. Not to mention she said it with far more confidence than she managed with his official titles.

"Gathering for your father?" he asked, gesturing to the basket filled with root and stems.

"Yes," she said, standing and brushing off her green skirts. "Widow Greyson has had complaints of the stomach again. Dandelion is the only thing that seems to help her. Although, if you ask me, it would help more if she would use a lighter hand when it comes to ale -"

She stopped abruptly and looked apologetically at him, knowing she was engaging in idle gossip. He smiled, finding it rather amusing.

"I, I don't mean to take up your time, sir," she said quickly.

"Not at all," he said, standing back and holding his arm out in invitation for her to walk with him. "If you've finished, I can accompany you home."

Molly smiled and ducked her head, walking towards him but keeping a decent amount of space between them as they headed towards the main road. Quiet descended on them and Sherlock knew he was obligated to engage her in polite conversation. He grimaced inwardly at that thought. It was why he hated the company of women the majority of the time – one was never able to speak of anything other than what was considered polite.

"John is quite happy in the practice," he said, trying to keep the boredom out of his voice.

"Oh yes," she replied, looking up at him. "And father is so grateful to you, and to John. He is a perfect fit."

"A permanent fixture, then."

"We do hope so."

"And when shall we expect your marriage?"

The words were spoken before he knew what he was saying. He only slightly regretted them, mostly because of the scandalized way she looked at him. He knew he was in for a fit.

"Marriage?" she said, horrified.

"Yes," he replied, studying the sky as they emerged from the woods. "It would solidify everything."

"Sir, I can assure you, nothing of the sort will be happening. I don't know what falsehoods you may have heard, but John's presence in our home is nothing less than proper," Molly said hotly.

"Your lowered neckline is surely not for your own amusement."

"I – I beg your pardon?"

"You don't wish to marry?" he asked, disregarding her embarrassment.

"Certainly not for convenience," she snapped with a boldly furious look in his direction.

"For love then?" he asked with a mocking emphasis on the word. Her gaze whipped forward to the road ahead and she flushed pink.

"I don't think that's quite proper to talk about, sir," she said evenly.

He was about to chastise her for the formality when a scream ripped through the air. Both heads turned towards a nearby cottage, set back a ways from the road. Sherlock knew it belonged to a small family whose patriarch did odd jobs fixing homes and buildings; mostly, they farmed and kept to themselves.

When the first scream was succeeded by wails and sobbing, Sherlock and Molly took off down the road and towards the cottage. The door was open and Sherlock bolted inside to find the wife fallen to the floor beside a wooden crate in the middle of the room. It took two steps towards it to see that the contents were what had sent the woman into fits. Her husband's body was crammed inside, blue and stiff. Molly gasped beside him, her hand flying to her mouth before she went to the poor woman and knelt with her.

"It's Edward," the woman wailed, balling her dusty skirts into her fists.

"Take her outside," Sherlock ordered. "Stay with her and don't let anyone else in. I'll fetch the Sheriff and your father."

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The small cottage was crowded with people, all centered around the crate. Molly had ushered the children outside and was keeping them distracted from the tragedy unfolding inside. Sheriff Lestrade crouched down, inspecting the body of the dead man with Master Hooper looking over his shoulder. Sherlock and John stood in front of his now-widow who was doing everything in her power to hold back the tears and stay upright in her chair.

"You noticed nothing amiss when you returned from town, Jane?" John asked gently.

"It's like I told you, sir," she sighed heavily. "I come back from buyin' my sewing needles. Walked 'round back to let the chickens out, came in to return the money pouch, and seen the crate lyin' there…door wide open and not a soul around."

"Edward was gone early this morning?" Lestrade asked, straightening and taking a few steps to join them.

Jane nodded, wiping at her eyes.

"Just before sunrise. Had some business to attend to."

"What business?" Sherlock asked.

"Wouldn't tell me, m'Lord. I figured it had to do with a job."

Sherlock absorbed the information and turned his gaze to the crate. The way the man was oriented would give anyone a shock, let alone his wife. Legs bent at an unnatural angle in an effort to fit the body, his head turned awkwardly to fix his dead gaze upwards at anyone unfortunate enough to look inside. He had been a strong man, with muscles like a bull, but even tempered from what Sherlock could recall.

"Was he having problems with anyone in the county?" Lestrade continued his line of questioning. "Any rivalries?"

"None, sir. Edward was beloved by everyone he knew."

"Where are his shoes?" Sherlock interjected.

Every head in the room turned to face him. He took in their surprise and found himself shocked that no one had noticed.

"He is barefoot," he clarified impatiently, pointing down towards the man's bare, but clean, feet. "Surely he was in the habit of wearing boots."

"I…yes, of course he was," Jane agreed quickly. "Was wearin' them when he left…I hadn't even noticed…"

"Is there anything else you may have failed to notice?" Sherlock pressed. "Or are you too unobservant in your own home -"

"What my friend would like to ask," John interrupted firmly, "is if there is anything you may have remembered now that the shock is not so bad. Is anything amiss in the house? Anything at all?"

"Now, now that I think on it…Y-yes, sir. Our money pouch…four pennies are gone," she said with a pitiable hiccup. "You don't think…no one would have the mind to do that to Edward for four pennies, would they? It's a pittance."

"Not too sure, ma'am," Lestrade said with a gentle smile.

With promises to help the family in the trying time, the men loaded the crate onto Master Hooper's wagon. Having come on the wagon, John remained in the back next to the crate to return to town to assist the physician. Molly stopped to offer Jane a comforting hug and kiss the children on the head before climbing up beside her father. She looked back at Sherlock as the horses began to plod forward, her expression filled with worry.

Lestrade came to his side, pulling on his leather gloves as they watched the wagon make its way down the road.

"We have a villain in our midst," he said, his jaw working tensely.

"No doubt of that," Sherlock agreed. "And it is something I won't tolerate."

The anger and the protectiveness he felt towards his county he could admit to Lestrade. The inexplicable excitement he felt at the promise of the hunt laid out before him, he would not.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The coldness of the stone room adjacent to Hooper's practice and chemist's shop in town provided the needed environment for the inspection of the dead man. By the time Sherlock had joined them, a preliminary look had already been undertaken. Lain out on a wooden table and covered with a modest cloth, he could easily see details that had escaped him in the cottage. Even without the training of a physician, he recognized the marks of a fight. Lord knew he had been in enough scrapes as a boy.

"He was strangled, m'Lord," Hooper said, pointing to the dark bruises around the man's neck that held the distinct shape of fingers.

"I can attest to that," John added with a dark look. "I've seen the like more than I care to remember in the desert."

"It is a matter of who did it, now," Sherlock told them. "Fortunately, we are certain of two things beyond how he died."

"What are those?" John asked.

"One, whoever killed him, knew him. That is the only way to explain the intimate nature of his body being delivered back to his home. Two, his boots will likely lead us to the guilty man."

"His boots?" Hooped said, thoroughly confused.

"His feet are clean, therefore he did not lose his boots prior to his death. If they were removed by our villain, there is a very clear reason," Sherlock told them surely. Hardly missing a beat, he glanced towards the door and added, "You may as well come in, Margaretta, you've overheard far too much to continue lurking in the doorway."

A surprised little squeak came from the hall outside and a few moments later Molly stepped in. Her father sighed but looked at her with resigned affection. Though clearly undisturbed by the presence of the body on the table, she hovered near the door and kept her hands tightly clasped in front of her.

"I trust we can count on your discretion?" Sherlock asked her. She nodded quickly. "Good. Hooper, you've taken note of all the marks?"

"Aye, m'Lord," the physician assured him. "Nothing more to be done for him now."

"Very well. John, if you're no longer needed, we can make our way back to the manor. The day grows late."

"Go on, John," Hooper said with a smile. John nodded and tossed his cloak around his shoulders, following Sherlock out the door and hearing Hooper's fading instructions to his daughter. "Molly, my girl, help me with his clothes. And when we're done, fetch some water to clean him up."

Once on the road and clear of anyone who may overhear, Sherlock unloaded the thoughts burdening his mind on the events of the day.

"I have not encountered such a mystery before, John," he admitted, his eyes narrowed and focused on the horizon of the road. "So many things are clear about it, and yet the answer is shrouded."

"I must admit, I have never seen such a thing, not even in battle," John replied. "Is violence uncommon to the county?"

"We have had our share of murders, proud vengeance enacted and drunken tempers unchecked. This is something entirely new – surely the result of a dark mind."

With his concerns voiced, Sherlock fell into silence and the walk back to the manor was quiet, contemplative. Supper was taken in the parlour, though he hardly touched the meal Martha had brought them. His mind was too preoccupied with trying to find the ties in the information he had. Again, he felt the sense of enthusiasm that he knew was slightly undesirable, but was unable to help it. His brother was one of the top minds in a world lacking in intelligence, even amongst those fortunate enough to obtain an education. He knew that he followed in those footsteps, but up until this point he had only found an interest in academic writings, personal experimentation, and the occasional amusement of observing his fellow countrymen. The tragedy of the day piqued his interest like nothing else he had come across.

His thoughts were broken by Sam's voice.

"Margaretta Hooper, m'Lord," he announced.

Sherlock looked up and noticed that supper had been cleared and the fire lit while he had been pondering. John was sitting up from a slouch in his chair, clearly waking up from a doze.

Molly entered the room, looking slightly winded and showing marks of having ridden to the manor in some haste. His eyes widened as he took in the sight of a pair of leather boots dangling from her hands. She held them out to him with a smile on her face.

"I found…found them down by the stream when I was fetching water," she said, trying to catch her breath.

The excitement he felt was quickly quelled, trying not to appear too eager at the discovery.

"They could be anybody's," he said calmly, though he rose from his chair to investigate.

"Perhaps," Molly said. "But why would they be hidden beneath branches and grasses? I was fortunate enough to trip over them."

Sherlock held back a smirk at the thought that her clumsiness could very well have produced such an important item. Taking the boots from her, he crossed the room to place them on a small table and was joined by his companions as he looked at them carefully. They were not high quality, though they were cared for well, showing no signs that they could have been left by the stream for a long time at all. As he circled the table and inspected the bottoms of the boots, something caught his eye. Quickly grabbing a nearby pen knife, he scraped at the crook of the boot where sole met heel.

John sniffed and made a face.

"Is that manure?" he asked.

"Pig, as a matter of fact, given the contents," Sherlock muttered, distracted as he took an inventory of the seeds embedded in the droppings. "Apple, pear…oh. Oh!"

As he pried the clot apart, his eyes landed on a seed he had only seen once in his life. It took a moment to recall how he knew it, but once his mind had provided the answer it was easy to place. His lips pulled back in a smile as he pieced together the likely path of the man's last hours.

He would have to be careful with how he handled the implications of what he now knew. Morning would be the absolute earliest he would risk acting.

"Sherlock," John murmured, sounding worried.

"I'll be in my chambers," he said quickly, straightening to leave the room.

"I should be on my way home. Father might worry."

He heard Molly's hesitant words as he strode towards the door, as well as John's immediate offer to escort her. His lip twitched a bit at the realization that, as Lord, he should have been the one to ensure her safe travels, but it was too late to turn around and fix his mistake.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

For a great many months, Sherlock had managed to avoid stepping foot inside his family's castle home, conducting business of the county from his manor. It gave him an odd satisfaction to make his brother's staff and counselors journey to him, enforcing a power than he knew many were not yet keen to give to him. Sadly, he was now forced to stand in the great hall of the stuffy, unfriendly residence of the Holmes legacy, waiting for a servant to announce him. He shifted uncomfortably in his stiff linens and leather trousers, not used to wearing his best clothing. The green velvet cloak was the sole piece of comfort. Well, that and the sword he had fastened fastidiously about his hips.

Nothing was neglected in Mycroft's absence; that could be said with a certainty. The stone floor was spotless, the tapestries did not show a hint of dust, and the fireplace was laid for the evening's fire.

Good, he thought. It was what he was counting on. No luxury ignored.

The servant came back into the hall, full of pomp.

"Sir James is not in his quarters at present, m'Lord," he said. "Perhaps you would like to leave word."

"That won't be necessary," Sherlock said with a smile that he quickly dropped, proceeding to stride past him and through to the halls.

He may not reside in the castle anymore, but that did not mean he was no longer at liberty to walk about as he pleased. Easily pushing open the door to the steward's chambers, he took quick stock of the room. He crossed to the desk where the ledgers were kept and glanced at the entries, turning back a page when he did not see what he was looking for.

"Ah ha," he muttered.

The entry was recent, the stain of the ink darker and more defined than the others. Tax collections from the last fortnight, four pennies collected from Edward's household. His mouth turned down angrily.

Four blessed pennies.

The sound of footsteps drew his attention to the door and he met the carefully schooled face of Moriarty and his personal hound, Sebastian. The blood boiled under his skin at the sight of them.

"M'Lord, I had not expected you today," the shorter man said, his body exuding forced composure at the intrusion.

"I do like to check the ledgers from time to time," Sherlock said, his voice low.

"Everything is in order, I can assure you. All taxes collected, all bills paid," Moriarty told him, his eyes narrowing.

"By whatever means necessary, I take it," Sherlock said slowly. He took a few careful steps towards the center of the room, allowing his hand to dip into a bowl of fruit presented prominently on the table and extracting a small, brown treat. "The county must be doing well…I was without a need to shave the last time we enjoyed dates."

He popped it into his mouth and felt his teeth clamp around the seed as he left the room. The sweetness of the dried fruit was unsatisfactory and he palmed the seed quickly and spat the pulp out the moment he was outside. He was glad he had chosen to ride to the estate; it made the trip to town much quicker and he was at the jailhouse in no time. Lestrade was somewhat less than willing to find as much outrage in the situation as Sherlock.

"A fruit pip and an inky ledger?" he asked with doubt, running a hand along his jaw in contemplation. "I admit, you notice a great deal more than most, but I would lose my head if I went after his Lordship's counselor and was proved wrong."

"You would have my word on your side," Sherlock said emphatically.

Lestrade considered him and Sherlock fought the urge to shake sense into the man.

"You'll allow me time to think on it?" he asked.

Sherlock nodded, though he felt frustrating disappointment. When he returned to the manor, a message was waiting for him from John, explaining that Anne Burbidge had started labor pains and was faring poorly. They had called for a physician's assistance and he was not expecting to return home until the morrow. On the one hand, he was glad to have the solitude to sulk. On the other, it would have been nice to purge his frustrations to his friend.

The certainty that Moriarty and Sebastian had bloodied their hands in the name of collecting a pathetic tax left him seeing red. He'd paid little attention to the going's on of the county prior to his brother leaving for the war, but he could not say he had ever had an easy feeling about the steward. Why Mycroft had entrusted this man to run his estate was beyond him at this point. Other Lords enacted harsh punishment for late taxes, but that had never been the way for Mycroft.

What Moriarty had done was…despicable.

Darkness had fallen when a resounding knock boomed from the main door. His eyes flicked up and he felt a twisting in his stomach at the sound. In mere moments, before Sam had a chance to announce them, Moriarty and Sebastian entered his parlour with four palace knights flanking them. He barely spared a glance for them as they marched purposefully into the room, keeping his chin propped casually in one hand as he slouched in his chair.

Moriarty made a show of unfurling a parchment and a devilish smile spread across his face as he read from it.

"Sir Sherlock of Huntingdon: you are hereby ordered by His Majesty, the King of England, to serve in the war, to fight for the crown and for the good Christian world."

"How convenient," he said dully, though inside his heart was pounding.

"It is a command not to be ignored," Moriarty advised darkly.

"Are you not frightened of the consequences that will rain down on you when my brother finds out what you are doing? When the crown finds out?" Sherlock demanded, standing irritably and facing the men.

"You will be well on your way to the Moors by the time word reaches anyone," Moriarty said smoothly, taking deliberate steps towards him. "If they are still alive to do anything about it. No one frightens me, m'Lord…not even the crown."

"I'm beginning to think you fancy seeing yourself wearing one."

"I would look stunning, I can assure you."

With that, Moriarty nodded towards the others and in one swift movement Sebastian had clubbed him across the back of the head while two of the knights gripped at his arms. His head swam and he struggled to maintain his dignity in face of the villain.

"I have one question for you," Sherlock growled, using every last ounce of strength to hold his head up.

"And that is?"

"Why did you remove the boots?"

Moriarty stared at him for a few moments before a decidedly amused grin spread across his face. His dark, cold eyes crinkled unnaturally with the action and he leaned forward so that his nose was inches from Sherlock's. His voice was low and deceptively melodic when he answered.

"So that he would fit in the box, you fool."


	3. Chapter 3

There was little to describe the two years after being forced to join the crumbling crusade – his abduction, really, when it came right down to it – other than torture.  After being knocked out cold in his own home, he’d woken in the bowels of a ship, bound amongst a dozen other men and headed towards the Holy Land.  Adding insult to injury, he discovered from the rag-tag collection of men that each shire had been obligated to “volunteer” additional soldiers.  Moriarty had taken it upon himself to make sure Sherlock was part of the flock.  Well placed favors and bribes had earned Moriarty loyalty, sometimes at the tip of a sword’s blade, from the powerful and wealthy – or so his captors told him with mocking laughter.

He seethed at the thought.  Revenge wormed its way into his mind from the first.  The amount of time he dreamed of the traitor’s head on a stake was likely unhealthy.

The only gem to be found in the grit of his situation was that he got to see the world he had read about at last.  It was hardly consolation.  They rode and marched at an agonizing pace for days on end, hardly resting.  Even if he had had the strength and energy to attempt an escape, he was constantly watched – a final ploy of Moriarty’s, if he had to bet.  There was no chance for him to try to contact his brother and there was little doubt news of his induction as a soldier had conveniently gotten lost on the way to his Majesty’s camp. 

Sherlock had the benefit of a good constitution and a comfortable upbringing on his side and he realized how very lucky he was to have started so strongly.  Out of the fifty men at the start, only thirty-two actually made it to see Jerusalem.  As he expected, the war was very nearly lost.  They spent more time languishing in tents and enjoying the company in the samovar than they did practicing drills.  To the great amusement of his fellow soldiers, he rarely indulged.  The exception was a dark haired, blue eyed gypsy of a woman who was as particular and discreet about who was allowed in her company as he was.  Not knowing what his fate would be and realizing that he very well may never escape his imprisonment, he allowed her to bring him fully into manhood.  His brother would have been so proud.

One year after they reached the desert, Sherlock was tanned, full-bearded, and far more inclined to appreciate the ways of the people in that part of the world than spit on them.  He also found his moment to escape it all.  Some of the men had been sent on a messenger errand to neighboring troops and his handlers saw the reduced number as an opportunity to imbibe and find pleasures outside of the encampment.  Not willing to let their charge out of sight, they dragged him along.

He was carefully watching their progression of gluttony and drunkenness when he felt a hand caress his arm.  He looked up to see the blue eyes of his gypsy.

“Come with me,” she said quietly, her eyes darting around the room and her smile beguiling.

To anyone watching, it would have appeared that he was slipping away to a whore’s quarters.  She instead led him through a dark passage and out into an alley.  The warm desert air was fresh after the smoky brothel.  His mouth dropped open in surprise at the sight of a saddled mare tethered nearby, loaded with supplies.  He looked at her, questioning.

“I am going to miss you, Sherlock,” she said, her voice heavy with the accent of the East.  She slipped a soft hand around the back of his neck and pulled him down to her, her lips gentler than in their other meetings.  Out of habit, his hands slid around her bare waist, just brushing the silks of her thin skirt.  She pulled away and looked up into his eyes.  “You know, I think still you are a liar.”

“About what?”

“I am not believing that you have no sweet lady waiting for you in the north,” she said with a smile.

“I can assure you, there is no one.”

She hummed her disbelief and slid her hand over his heart.

“Perhaps she has not found her way to you yet,” she said with a knowing look.  “Your eyes do not get lost on the horizon searching for no one.”

His body stilled at her words and he felt, not for the first time, that she truly might be able to read men’s souls with the way she always spoke of life.  It was what kept him from sharing more than a bed with her.  She knew too much without his ever having to tell her and that put his guard up despite her enticing demeanor.

Whatever his reservations, he would never forget what she had done for him and would always be thankful.

It was a long, lonely journey back to Huntingdon.  Months wondering if he would ever see the soil of his home again, to look upon the faces of the people he cared for.

When at last he found his weary feet traveling down the main road into town, he could hardly believe his own eyes.  It looked the same…but also so different.

Children ran in the streets, laughing, and merchants hocked their wares.  Women gossiped on the corner and old men talked about the weather and comparing the year’s crops to all the others that had come before.

And yet there was a cloud of melancholy over it all; a subdued air that had not been present before.  He noticed the way the women looked over their shoulders, the hunched, protective stance of the men.  Then his eyes fell upon the crumbling buildings and shuttered shops.  Not a single person looked at him and he was hardly surprised; he doubted he would recognize himself were he to peer into a looking glass.  It gave him leave to observe what had happened to his town, to his county, in his absence and it made him livid.  He turned away from it all with a snarl and wrapped his cloak tighter around his shoulders, walking quickly towards the road.

* * *

Steam curled up from the heavy kettle that hung over the fire and Molly wrapped a cloth around her hand to retrieve it, setting it gently on the kitchen table.  Two sets of wide brown eyes watched her from the straw mat laden with wool blankets.  She smiled at the young boys to try to set their minds at ease.  Measuring two handfuls of dried willow bark, she placed the chips in a wooden bowl and carefully poured the steaming water over them.  The liquid instantly began to turn a ruby red and the scent slowly permeated the room.  While the water cooled and steeped, she gathered her things and placed them in her pouch.

When she was done, she picked up the bowl, the wood warm to the touch, and carried it to the young woman who was huddled in a chair, her husband at her side and holding her shoulders.  The woman looked up at her, her eyebrows pulled together in pain.

“Drink this, Eleanor,” Molly instructed her kindly.  “Three times a day, just like I showed you, until the pain has gone.”

The woman nodded and raised the bowl to her lips.

Molly smiled and bid the little family goodbye, pulling her cloak securely around her and raising the hood before stepping outside.  The days were growing warmer as summer approached, but evenings still raised the hair on her arms with cold.  The walk to the road from the tiny cottage was short and she quickly adjusted the hood of her cloak, making sure it was lowered to hide her face from view.

Eleanor Whittle was one of dozens of patients she tended to in secret in the year since her father died.  The headaches she suffered from were crippling and painful, but her case was one of the few Molly felt optimistic about.  Willow tea would help and she knew the woman would listen to her instructions.  She had left the majority of her supply at the cottage and it would be important to replenish it soon.  Not on her way home, of course, not when she’d already traipsed about on foot for the better part of the afternoon.  Anything other than a hint of road dust on her hem would arouse suspicion and her gown was already showing signs of her activity.

She hated sneaking about, but there was nothing to be done about it.

Concerned about her herb supplies and stewing for the hundredth time about her limited freedoms, she rounded a bend in the road with her eyes fixed on the ground and the rest of her vision blocked by her cloak and ran straight into the chest of a tall gentleman.  He let out a soft grunt at the impact and she yelped in surprise.

Molly looked up, heart racing, expecting to defend her presence outside of the castle, when her gaze met a set of eyes she would have known anywhere in the world.  Were it not for the blue-green of those eyes, she never would have known him under the scraggly hair, the beard, and the mismatched linens and wool cloak wrapped tightly around him.

“Sherlock,” she breathed, stunned into stillness.

He blinked at her before recognition dawned in his features.

“Molly?”

“Good Lord, it’s really you!” she nearly shouted, catching herself at the last second before she threw her arms around him and fully embarrassed herself.

She had no time to contemplate any further words of welcome as she heard the sound of hoof beats in the distance.  Casting a worried glance down the lane, she took hold of his arm and pulled him from the road and into the shadows of the woods.

“Molly, what -”

“Shh,” she shushed him, sinking further back into the brush when a group of riders went by, all wearing the colors of Moriarty.  When they had gone, she looked over at the man she hardly recognized.  “I musn’t be caught on the road.”

“You’ve walked this road a hundred times,” he said, giving her a quizzical look.

“That was before…”

“Before?”

“Before James Moriarty took me as his ward,” she said flatly, trying to keep the hatred out of her voice.  Sherlock stared at her, his entire face tensed.

“He what?”

“When did you return?”

“Only just.”

“Then you’ve no idea, do you?” she asked him, shaking her head slightly.  At his lost look, her face dropped in sympathy.  “He took over everything.”

She saw the flash of anger in his eyes and it frightened her.  At the same time it gave her hope.  His return could change everything.  Sherlock’s eyes dropped away from hers and he stared tensely into the distance.  After a few moments, he looked around and stood, holding his hand out for her to join him.

“Is there somewhere we can go to talk?  Your father’s?”

Molly shook her head, finding herself blinking back tears that she had kept under control for so long. 

“He’s nearly a year in his grave,” she said.  “The farm is lost.”

“The manor -”

“Has a new master,” she told him bitterly.  “Sheriff Sebastian Moran.”

A look of illness suddenly overtook his face and she fought with the urge to reach out to him.

“John,” he said, his voice cracking.

“I…I don’t know,” she said quietly.  “We kept him with us for as long as we could.  When father…John was very outspoken about the way things are under James.  There was a price on his head for a while.  He was never caught.”

She hated being the one to tell him what had become of his world.  It was obvious enough to those who knew him that he had not left England willingly and he certainly never would have tolerated the events that followed.

“I only have a little more time before I will be missed,” Molly said.  “There is one place we can go to talk more.”

She led him through the brush and trees of the quiet forest, knowing the way by heart since she was a child.  As they traveled in the cool shadows of the evergreens and oaks, she found herself glancing at him from time to time, more than curious about what he had been through over the previous two years.  The county had been stunned to learn that both heirs to Huntingdon had been sent to war, his swift disappearance causing murmurs of suspicion through the land.  The rumors were quickly quelled when the full force of Moriarty’s control fell over the people.  The snake of a man had started his own rumors as well – each word designed to turn the people of Huntingdon against their former Lord.

Whatever trials Sherlock had been through, she was glad to notice his eyes didn’t hold the haunted look she had seen in so many others returning from war.  Perhaps a little older, a little more worldly, but there was nothing harrowing in his look.

She kept them in the cover of the undergrowth as they approached the edge of town, skirting along the main road.  A three-story building, brown and mossy with age, loomed in the waning light as the first building to greet any travelers coming into town.  It was an inn that often housed less worthy folk, those who could not afford the fineries of staying closer to the shops, the social halls, or even the castle itself, removed as it was on a hill overlooking the town.  The mangy shape of the resident guard dog came loping towards her, tail wagging in friendly greeting as it nudged at her hand with its nose.  Molly reached into her satchel and offered it a bit of dried beef from her midday meal before patting it on the head.

“Good boy,” she whispered, stepping past the happy dog and leading Sherlock to the back door of the inn, knocking softly.

A sliver of wood slid open and an eye peered out quickly before the wood was replaced.  The sound of bolts unlatching sounded from inside and in a few moments the door was swung open.  A thin man in worn linens stood before them, wiping his hands on an apron tied round his waist.  His dark hair hung limply over his forehead and a scraggly beard adorned his jaw.

“Didn’t expect you for a few days more, Molly,” he said, standing aside to let them in.

“I gave the last of my willow bark to Eleanor,” she said, stepping into the warmth of the kitchen.  She gestured to Sherlock.  “And I knew of no better place to bring him.”

The innkeeper looked to Sherlock as he closed the door, eyes searching.  The fire crackled and the muted laughter of patrons from the main room filled the silence as it slowly dawned on the man who he was staring at.

“My Lord,” he suddenly said, making a small bow.  “We had given you up for dead.”

“You are Master Anderson, if I’m not mistaken,” Sherlock replied.

“Yes, my Lord.”

“Mm.”  Sherlock glanced quickly about the room.  “Still watering down your ale?”

Anderson sputtered a bit and blushed.

“Not if I can help it.  But times are hard, you see,” he said, swallowing nervously.  He gestured for them to sit at the small table near the hearth and hurried to fetch a tankard and a plate of food to offer.  “This is the finest, though.”

Molly primly declined the offer of food and drink, citing her need to hurry back to the castle. 

“But the willow bark, if you please,” she reminded him.

Anderson turned towards the far wall and walked right up to it, reaching for a board and pulling it loose.  Behind it lay shallow shelves of herbs, bottles, and bags of remedies.  He reached for a bowl of the dark shavings and brought it to Molly to refill her pouch.  Sherlock watched her with curiosity and she glanced up as she cinched the cloth tightly, securing its contents.

“I keep my supplies here – herbs and other treatments.”  At his surprised look, she went on.  “Huntingdon has been without a proper physician for some time.  I do what I can for the people who live here.”

“They accept a woman’s help?”

“It’s either my help or none at all.  The few who were too proud are now proud in their graves.”

He looked taken aback by her harsh words, his eyes narrowing as he studied her.  When Anderson settled at the table with them, his focus seemed to shift.

“You seem inclined to keep my presence here quiet,” he stated.  “Have I joined John in the ranks of those with valuable heads?”

Molly glanced at Anderson, waiting, hoping, to see if he would be the one to share what life was like amongst the masses; the reason Sherlock, disguised as he was, was not entirely safe.  Anderson stroked at his beard agitatedly and sighed.

“After you left, Moriarty made it known that the county was impoverished,” he said finally.  “That you’d squandered the fortunes and taxes in your brother’s absence and there was nothing left.  So he started taking every coin he could.  And when the coins would not satiate…the beatings began.  Violence was left unchecked.”

“And no one did a thing?” Sherlock demanded angrily.  “No one spoke the truth?”

“Lestrade tried,” Molly said, looking down at her entwined fingers.  “He almost believed the lies, but in the end he knew you would never have authorized that sort of punishment.  Probably assumed you had about as much interest in squandering tax collections as you do in appearing at court.”

Sherlock’s mouth quirked up slightly at her bit of mirth.

“What was his fate?” he asked, once again serious.

“They made an example of him,” Anderson said heavily when Molly would not answer.  “Not easy to fight back when you’re faced with corrupt royal swords.  Though how he escaped from the stocks, in the middle of the night, is still a mystery.  Put Moriarty in a right fit for a fortnight.”

Molly could not hold back the small smirk at the memory of Moriarty outsmarted.  It had been hellish in the castle during those days, but entirely worth it.  She stood quickly, gathering her things.

“Master Anderson, I had hoped that you would allow his Lordship to stay here until…well, until something can be done,” she said, looking at the man ousted from his own home.

“Of course, long as he needs,” Anderson said.

“Thank you.  I must be going now.”

She took a step towards the door and Sherlock suddenly stood, then hesitated.  For a moment, he looked lost, his eyes intensely focused on her.  Then he stepped towards her, reaching for her hand and bringing it briefly to his lips.  They were warm and soft against her skin, the hair of his beard tickling her slightly.  She felt a very unladylike shiver dart under her skin as he raised his head and looked at her.

“Thank you, Molly Hooper.”

A nod was all she could manage, slipping her hand slowly from his and heading out the door.

* * *

Sherlock watched the retreating form of Molly as she disappeared into the woods, the hood of her cloak pulled over her long hair and obscuring her face.  He could not put a name to the sensation that overtook him as he realized she was leaving – panic, perhaps, if he were being honest.  He’d been so cut off from his former life, so deprived, that her leaving him alone had incited a momentary stab of fear.  It was not a sensation he was used to.

She had changed, that was certain.  Grown up quickly and done what she needed to in order to survive in the challenging two years he had been gone.  And he was positive she had done her part to stir up trouble when it was safe – he’d seen the small smile appear on her face at the mention of Lestrade’s escape from the stocks.  Never before would he have guessed she would assist in the escape of a royal prisoner. 

Anderson stepped to his side as they both looked out into the darkening wood.

“My Lord, if I am honest, I cannot say I always spoke well of you in years past,” he said gruffly.  “But I would trade all my possessions if I could see you put Moriarty back into the mud pit he came from.”

Sherlock chuckled.  The innkeeper pressed a small brass key into his palm.

“Last room on the top.  Back stairs will take you right to it.  Help yourself to anything you desire.”

With that, he grabbed a tray loaded with bread and cheeses and made his way through a door towards the common room.  Sherlock looked at the key, tossing it into the air and catching it again.  Glancing out the back one more time, seeing no hint of Molly, he shut the door and bolted it before seeking out the stairs and ascending to his room.  It was not much in the way of comforts, but compared to life on the road it seemed the height of luxury.  He set to work lighting a warming fire and filled a wash basin with water from the pitcher.  Glad to find a set of sheers and a blade amongst the odd things left in the room, he washed and shaved properly for the first time in months.  He shed his outer layers and his boots and settled in the chair before the fire, stretching his legs out and placing his fingers beneath his chin. 

It was time to find a way to deal with Moriarty.


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock woke with a start, the sun shining in brightly from the window of his room. Rubbing his hand over his face, he heard a loud bang from a room down the hall, followed by angry voices. He realized it must have been the ruckus that had roused him. Leaning back into the pillow of his bed, he listened with curiosity to the fight. A woman and a man. He smiled a bit as he heard the words being thrown back and forth – he had promised to leave his wife and she was furious it was taking so long.

"Run while you can," he muttered to the poor woman.

He waited until the excitement had died down before dressing and making his way down to the kitchen, choosing to continue his low profile. Given what he had learned from Molly and Anderson, he was unsure of the loyalty from the people of his county. Finding out how many were swayed by Moriarty's lies would be key in his effort to reclaim his home. If he faced animosity, it would be a difficulty to prove that he and Mycroft were not at fault. Though how the people could be loyal to such a brute was something he had not been able to figure.

People were sheep; that much he understood. If the groundwork was laid to sully his name, the subsequent "justice" enacted by Moriarty could possibly be welcomed.

He pondered what the best move would be as he scoured the buttery for something to eat, breakfasting quickly and finally deciding that a direct approach was best. Bracing himself for the collection of miscreants in the common room, he pulled back his shoulders and pushed through the door of the kitchen. He passed through a small hall that reeked of smoke and ale and stepped into the common room, immediately taking in the smattering of men and women leaning over mugs and plates of food, some holding heads that were no doubt suffering from indulging too much the night before. A few were reclined against the wall and snoring. Overall, the mood was significantly subdued from what he perceived from the last evening.

He quickly found the pair that had graced him with their domestic exchange upstairs. The woman was leaning back in her chair, arms firmly crossed and her gaze fixed icily on the floor. The man was shoveling food into his mouth aggressively, not paying her one moment of his attention. She was not quite young, not quite old, but beautiful and exuding the air of someone who had been handed everything in life. He was older, a gambler, and, just as Sherlock had suspected, nowhere near leaving his wife. The wife kept a good home for her husband. The woman kept his bed warm. What reason did he have to change the situation?

Sherlock scowled.

He swept through the room and brushed past their table, casually reaching out a hand to grab the man's cloak and hat from the back of his chair. Donning them quickly without drawing a single eye from those in the room, he strode out the front door and onto the main road. The items were a vibrant green, not unlike his own from so long ago. The fabric was rich and soft, flowing about him as he walked.

It gave him confidence.

The stares and occasional gasps directed his way as he walked into town did little to distract him. His focus was on confronting Moriarty. Nothing could be done with the townspeople until he was dealt with.

It took a most unexpected sight on a small street to pull his focus. The little crowd of people gathered around a distraught husband and wife drew him down the street, but the overwhelming smell of charred wood and smoke worried him to the core. He recognized the building – the best bakery in the town. All that indicated its original purpose was the corner of a sign swinging by a hinge above the door. Nothing remained inside, every loaf of bread and work surface burned down to ash. He looked up and saw the waning plumes of smoke curling from the windows of the living quarters above the shop. Little damage had been done to the adjoining buildings, though the pails of water rushed to the fire had been far too late for the bakery.

He moved carefully towards the crowd, not wanting to draw attention until he needed to, taking in the sooty, sweaty forms holding limply to buckets and basins.

"I promised I would have it to them. I _promised_ I would pay," the baker was saying to the group at large, his voice shaking with shock and rage. "Just a few more days…why didn't they listen?"

"This county is damned," an onlooker spat out.

A wave of hushes and murmurs spread through the small crowd as the sound of hoof beats approached, metal and leather clanking together from riders and tack. Sherlock felt his face flush in anger when he laid eyes on Moriarty at the helm, Moran close on his heels. The luxury of his clothes, the air of superiority, turned Sherlock's stomach when he thought of how his people had been living.

Time seemed to freeze altogether when he saw the members of court bringing up the rear of the group. He saw Molly, her lilac skirts spilling over her mount and her long hair hidden away under a cream colored wimple and veil. He'd not known how used to seeing her free and nearly wild he was until that moment. He hated Moriarty for doing that to her. Riding next to Molly and clearly acting as lady's maid and chaperone was Martha, looking no more pleased to be part of the group than Molly herself.

His thoughts were interrupted by the baker's wife pleading.

"My Lord," she choked out, falling desperately to her knees in front of Moriarty's stallion. "We would have paid…just a few more days."

Moriarty had the audacity to look shocked, wounded even. He stared down at the woman with an expression of concern, though his dark eyes were stony and impassive.

"My dear woman," he said. "It is indeed a tragic accident. But surely you do not believe this has anything to do with your late payments."

He drew out the last two words with cold precision. More words were exchanged, but Sherlock's eye had drifted to the front window of the building, the wood in one corner deep black from the fire and far more damaged than elsewhere. Stepping discreetly towards the wall, the top of a wooden stick came into view and he reached out for it. Singed and slightly warm to the touch, the stick ended in a bulge of burnt fabric. Sherlock held it in front of his face, peering at the way the fabric was wrapped, the pattern of the singing, the white sheen where it had escaped the licks of the flame…

His head turned back to the crowd when he heard his own name from Moriarty's voice.

"How do we know it was 'im, eh?" one of the onlookers bit out, drawing the warning glances of the crowd. "You always say he's to blame, but 'ow do we know 'e was the one to ruin this county?"

"Why don't you ask him yourself?" Moriarty smirked. He pointed straight at Sherlock and he felt the eyes of a dozen people turn to him with sudden shock and awareness. He froze, assessing the feelings radiating from the crowd. "Left the county in ruin and then ran off to the other side of the world to escape the problems. Couldn't stop the violence. Couldn't save his county. So he abandoned you. And now you get to properly thank him for all that he's done."

Sherlock felt the tension rise in the crowd, the indecision on who to believe growing. He saw the fear in their eyes, the distrust of him that had been planted in his absence.

He glanced at the remains of the silken fabric one more time and sniffed it, recoiling at the scent of lamp oil.

"Blame," Sherlock said loudly. "That is a fine topic, isn't it? For example, it would be easy to blame this inferno on bad luck…this torch says otherwise."

"Oh how I have missed your whims of imagination, Sherlock Holmes," Moriarty said with a smile, earning matching grins from his guard.

"This is fabric from the castle, no one in this town could possibly possess such a thing! Wrapped around to form a torch – a deliberate act by your forces!"

The look on Moriarty's face darkened, his carefully controlled detachment dropping for several moments. In that instant, Sherlock knew he was no longer going to be treated as a mere nuisance to Moriarty, a problem to be scuttled off to a far off land and forgotten. There was murder in his eyes and Sherlock felt his pulse quicken.

"That is a dangerous accusation, Sherlock," Moriarty said, his voice deepening. "One you should think twice about unless you wish to go against God and country."

"Oh I think you know how little regard I have for either of those."

Damn his mouth. Mycroft had always warned him it would be his own undoing.

If he had any doubt as to his mistake, the sharp inhales and mutterings of the people around him confirmed he had indeed made a grievous error.

"A traitor and a blasphemer," Moriarty said, nodding to the guards around him who began to dismount. "A shame the desert did not take you."

Sherlock's focus narrowed as each man hit the ground – five in all – and metal scraped against leather as swords were drawn. They were trained and dangerous, but for all their perilousness they were encumbered by chain mail and armor, sluggish in their movements. When the first heavy sword cut through the air towards him, he easily ducked away and had enough time to raise the torch to knock away the next cut from another guard. Before the man had a chance to lift the sword again, Sherlock swung the torch towards his helmet and sent a flurry of ash into his eyes. In a flash, the sword was dropped as the guard shouted in pain and Sherlock had it in his hands before the other guards could move. They took it in turns to bring blows to his blade until his arms ached and the crowd had become deadly silent.

With a great shout, Sherlock knocked the blade from one of the guard's hands and it clattered to the ground. His own hands shook and his sword dropped as well. He stumbled back, panting and spent, watching the last three guards close in on him.

"Stop."

Moriarty's sharp command came out of nowhere. Looking up and blinking through the sweat that had gathered on his eyelids, Sherlock saw him looking down from his horse with great interest. He gave a lethargic wave of his hand towards the guards.

"Let him go," Moriarty said, gathering his reins and turning his horse. "To kill him would only be a kindness. Let him rot in his mistakes."

One by one, the people surrounding him turned their backs and slowly faded back to their lives, scared or disgusted or apathetic. With a few last deep breaths, he looked at the retreating riders. Molly alone delayed, doing her best to appear to be struggling with her chestnut mare. She stared hard at him, her mouth set and her expression nearly unreadable.

Moments passed and he awaited her judgment; waited to find out if there was one person left who did not see him as the ruined life he had been painted as.

Her face suddenly dropped in sympathy and she mouth one word to him: 'Run.'

* * *

The woods had always been a comfort to Sherlock and it only seemed the right place to go. He followed the stream away from Huntingdon and tried to get lost in the way the water moved as he walked along. The morning had given him more answers than he was prepared for, more clean-cut than he had expected. He had rather underestimated the control Moriarty had over the people of his county and the brute force he had on his side.

It was quite devastating.

And embarrassing.

If he'd made more of an effort to connect with his county before, then perhaps…but it was pointless to wonder. They'd lost their faith in him. Or if they hadn't, they were too terrified of the consequences to show it outright.

He huffed to himself as his thoughts circled back to the beginning again, bending down to pick up a rock before chucking it irritably into the water with a loud splash, water spitting over the banks.

In the next instant, the crack of something hard across his shoulders knocked the wind out of him, sending him sprawling to the ground, his cap flying from his head. His already taxed muscles seized at the blow and he writhed in pain and gasped for breath. Sherlock rolled to his side in the damp grass and forced his eyes open to take in his assailant. A short, boorish looking man stood above him, long hair and beard giving him a wild look and the rough wool and skins that made up his dress only added to the affect.

"Up, coward!" the man bellowed, leaning on a staff that was no doubt the cause of Sherlock's aching shoulders.

He groaned and struggled to his feet, damned if he would let some ruffian be the death of him after his time in the desert. He reached for his sword before remembering he no longer owned one and grimaced at the way the man laughed at him.

"Poor sod," the man shook his head. "Guess it'll have to be all hands, then."

The man tossed his staff to the side and crossed his arms, waiting for Sherlock to steady himself. Sherlock shook his head, bringing focus back to his vision and warily lifting his fists. He blinked as the man took a fighting stance, a smirk on his face and his blue eyes twinkling.

"John!" Sherlock cried, looking stunned to pieces.

The blue eyes lost their mirth and widened, his head cocking to the side in confusion. It took several moments and Sherlock was certain it was mostly disbelief working against him, but John finally looked on him with recognition.

"Sherlock?" he said, his hands dropping to his side. "You have not perished…"

"Nor have you, to my great relief," Sherlock replied with a smile that only began to show the happiness he felt at finding his friend alive and well. "Though slightly less refined looking than when I last saw you."

John laughed outright and rushed forward, throwing his arms around Sherlock and completely heedless of the gasp of pain he emitted. For such a small man, he was surprisingly strong.

"John, while I am happy for the greeting, I am suffering from two lashings so far today," Sherlock said, his voice slightly strangled.

With a final pat on the back, John released him and stepped back, his look of delight overshadowed with concern.

"Two?" he asked. "Given that I supplied one, I have a fairly good idea of who supplied the first."

"Moriarty's guards can hardly be called inept," Sherlock said, looking at John with more than a bit of admiration. "You've done well avoiding them, it would seem."

"This part of the wood is beyond their interest," John told him. "And we do a great deal to keep the curious away."

"We?"

John smiled at him and clapped a hand on his shoulder, mindful of his pain this time.

"Come with me, my friend," he said.

It was a remote part of the forest that Sherlock was led to, answering John's questions all the way about what had happened to him, and he was slightly disconcerted to learn that the area had escaped his notice. Beyond a sharp hill with jagged rocks, ferns, and oaks, dropped into a small valley protected by the raised earth on three sides and a wide creek and thick mess of brambles on the last, was a camp. Half a dozen sturdy tents dotted the area with fires burning bright along the way, tended by men dressed similarly to John. One or two women were present, hanging wash on lines stretched between trees.

"These are the outcasts of Huntingdon," John said, gesturing to the camp as they staggered down the hillside. "Not much, but a sight better than how we lived before."

"John," Sherlock said, stopping their trek as they reached the edge of the camp. His friend turned and looked at him expectantly. His eyes flickered around the camp for a moment before coming to rest on John. "I am sorry for what happened. If there was something I could have done…"

John raised his hand.

"You were no more able to do anything than anybody else," he said with a mollifying smile.

That was the end of it, though Sherlock felt he did not deserve the forgiveness so quickly and wholly. He'd placed John in his home, thinking it had been the best thing for him, and it had placed him directly in harm's way.

He followed as the man made his way through the camp to a tent on the far side by the creek, a roaring fire and two figures tending to a pot boiling with a delicious smelling stew. Sherlock spared a small look to the young man tossing bits of potato in the pot before turning his attention to the man of the cloth stirring. He stopped in his tracks, his brow furrowing in astonished amusement.

"Lestrade?"

The man started, sloshing soup onto the fire which sputtered and hissed. He looked up and mirrored the look of shock, wiping his hands furiously on his brown robes. John chuckled as he ambled towards the fire, hands in his pockets.

"Never fear, Sherlock, he hasn't taken the cloth," he said. "All for show."

"Let's me come an' go as I please, doesn't it?" Lestrade said, shooting a look at John. "You're just in a fit you didn't think of it first."

"I'll stick to the woods, thank you," John said with a smile, taking a seat on the log by the fire.

Lestrade pulled a face and stepped towards Sherlock, extending his hand. It was taken heartily, his spirits lifting at seeing friendly faces after his disastrous exodus from town. Before long, the entire camp was gathered around to find out what had become of their former Lord. Very unexpectedly, he found himself losing that title and quickly becoming one of them. They were certainly enraptured by his adventures and showed more support for his side of things than anyone in Huntingdon had done.

"And what do you plan to do?" asked the young lad called Will seated next to John. "Half the people in the county will be heading for the jail or the woods in a fortnight with the way James has been dipping into purses."

Sherlock's gaze drifted around the gathered group, taking in the hopeful stares and tired eyes. His eyes landed on John's. The shake of his head and resigned frown were almost imperceptible. Sherlock understood.

"If you're looking for miracles, I'm certainly the wrong person to turn to," Sherlock said, looking into the fire. "You'd best return your attentions to your own lives."

The disappointment was palpable, but he could not waste time on their reactions. He waited until they had dispersed back to their own little camps before turning to look at John, Lestrade, and Will. John leaned his elbows on his knees, staring at Sherlock.

"No plan then?" he asked.

"Oh no, I've got a plan," Sherlock replied, his eyes narrowing as he looked into the distance. "At least, I'm fairly certain I do. But putting their hopes in me would just lead to disillusionment."

"What's the plan?" Lestrade asked.

"Give the people back what is theirs," he said firmly, standing and removing his cloak and cap. "I'll need a dress and veil."

"A what?" John cried, looking aghast.

"A dress and veil," Sherlock repeated, clasping his hands together and looking at Will. "One of your old sets will do, I think. You can't have started dressing as a boy that long ago."

Will's mouth dropped open like a fish, hands clutching subconsciously at the shirt neck. Lestrade shifted uncomfortably and John looked ready to land another blow with his staff. It was one of those moments Sherlock realized too late that he had said the wrong thing.

"Well surely you both knew," he said, looking between the two men.

"Of course we did, but we don't go around chatting about it," John said in a barely hushed voice. "She's hidden it very successfully."

Sliding his eyes over to her, Sherlock saw the panic and guardedness in her face. He walked over and looked down into her bright blue eyes.

"What's your real name?" he asked.

"Mary," she said quietly, her voice dropping the bravado from earlier and sounding softer.

"Mary," he said, giving her a small smile. "Family trouble?"

She nodded, running a nervous hand through her short blonde hair.

"Not to worry," he reassured her. "I know a bit about that myself. Now, take your time with those dresses. I won't need them til tomorrow."

* * *

It had been two years since Sherlock had properly enjoyed the company of a friend and a good tankard of ale and the evening brought both for him. A few people at another fire had brought out a pipe, fiddle, and drums and the camp was almost raucous with laughter and jovial shouting. Sherlock watched them all, sipping at his ale as he leaned against the log on the ground, John by his side. John smiled and laughed as he watched Lestrade spin around clumsily in a circle with a young lady.

The air smelled of earth and pine sap and smoke, with the lingering scent of supper. It was quite comfortable and enjoyable.

"Quite a world you have out here," Sherlock chuckled, taking another drink.

"Almost enough to make you not want to go back," John said, reaching for a long stick and stoking the fire before settling back against the log. Sherlock looked over at him.

"If you don't wish to be involved, you can say so," he told him.

"Not what I meant," John said. He considered for a moment. "Though for tomorrow's plan, I may decline again."

Sherlock laughed.

"Just as well, you're far to bearded for it anyway," he said, smiling.

Lifting a hand up to his face, John made a show of stroking his beard.

"Keeps me warm," he said.

"You look ridiculous."

"I do not."

"I have it on high authority that ladies are not fond of woolen faces," Sherlock said, unable to resist the dig.

"Whose authority?" John asked, taken another sip of his ale.

Sherlock watched his eyes dart towards Mary. He smiled, pleased that his intuition was correct.

"Never mind whose," he said, leaning his head back to look up at the stars. John laughed.

"Very pleased you're back, Sherlock," he said sincerely. "Very pleased."

"As am I, John."

* * *

Even with the long cloak and letting out the hem of Mary's skirts, Sherlock's stature was still too tall not to look absurd in the disguise. He tugged the skirt down for the tenth time as he rode up to the castle at midday. Fortunately, the bustle of the day was enough that no one bothered to look at him twice. He reined his horse over to a post and nearly upset the basket of apples he had carried in while he dismounted. Keeping his gaze demurely down, he offered the fruit to anyone who came close enough on his way to a servant's entrance. He was briskly turned down each time and felt rather pleased that he had slipped anyone's notice by the time he popped through the door. The hall was empty and he dumped the basket immediately, making his way quickly through the hall and towards the steward's chambers.

He stopped short when he saw the guard standing at the door. On the smaller side and his nose red from overindulgence in wine and ale. Thinking quickly, he shed the cloak and pulled the veil across his face, walking confidently up to the door. The guard looked at him.

"I'm here to do the dusting," Sherlock said, softening his voice and taking care to look up from below his lashes.

Giving a crooked smile, the guard stepped aside and let him right through. For good measure, Sherlock batted his eyelashes while he shut the heavy door, earning another idiotic smile. His demeanor dropped the moment the door was shut, wondering not for the first time how men could act so pathetic when it came to feminine wiles.

The room was little changed from the last time he had been in it, although more items of value had made their way onto tables and shelves. He found the coin box quickly enough, picking the lock and flinging the lid back to reveal gold and jewels. More than enough to settle the accounts of many people in the county, but he knew he must exercise caution, taking only what would not be missed right away. Reaching below the skirts for the pouch he had brought, he swiftly filled it and retied it to his belt.

Upon turning to leave the room, his eyes landed on the polished wood of his bow leaning against the wall amongst the clutter of other items, a quiver of arrows propped next to it. He weighed the risks.

It would be noticeable.

It would absolutely give him away.

He grabbed them as he left the room, bursting through the door without looking back.

"All done wif the dusting then?" the guard called out.

"Oh yes, quite done," Sherlock replied cheerily, glancing over his shoulder at the oblivious guard before rounding the corner.

He had not gone two steps out of sight when he heard a loud sound of indignation.

"'Ere now, wait a minute you!"

It was difficult to run in skirts. He had not particularly anticipated that specific obstacle, but he did his best to dash full speed down the corridor and towards the stairs, the footfalls of the guard hard on his heels. The man was calling for assistance and Sherlock took the stairs three at a time, making a hard right on the landing in an effort to lose them and find a place to hide. Spotting a door just a few paces away, he bolted for it, grabbing the iron handle and throwing it open, slipping into the room. He winced when the door slammed shut with an echo in the hall. Pressing his ear against the wood, he strained to hear if they had managed to follow his path when a startled little cry behind him turned his head.

_Oh for the love of…_

Molly stood there, pleasantly exposed in her chemise and stockings. The surprise of his sudden appearance left an enticing blush across her cheeks and breast, far more easily seen than it would have been had she been wearing a gown. For a moment, he wondered why she did not cover herself.

"Are you a new lady's maid?" she asked, taking a step forward. "Martha did not mention that…"

At that moment, he remembered his disguise and also realized that she saw right through it – the bow and arrows surely didn't aid him - as she stared into his eyes and hers widened. She launched herself towards her bed and scrambled for her dressing gown, turning her back as she threw it around herself.

"Sherlock!" she hissed angrily. "What in Heaven's name are you doing here?"

"It's better if you don't know," he told her, patting absently at the pouch of jewels and coins hidden below his skirts.

"Something that could get you hanged, I take it," she said, her voice still shaken while she looked over her shoulder and tried with trembling hands to secure the ties of her gown. She caught his eye and glared at him. "Turn around!"

He smirked and turned around to face the wall.

"It's nothing I haven't seen years ago," he said, amused.

"I was a _child_ then," she snapped back. "In the name of modesty, keep your back turned."

He laughed to himself and studied the seams between the stones of the wall.

"Is it safe yet?" he asked lightly.

"Fine, yes, you can turn around now."

She was gripping the neckline of her dressing gown to her throat, but it did little to erase the image of her flushed skin. He found himself wishing he were not wearing such a ridiculous disguise in front of her. It made him feel decidedly foolish as he approached her.

"Not that I think you would, but it might be best for you not to mention my little visit," he told her with a slight purse of his lips. "Might arouse suspicion."

Molly nodded, pulling her gown tighter. Sherlock leaned in and saw her sharp intake of breath.

"How often do you spend afternoons in your underthings, Molly Hooper?" he asked teasingly.

Her mouth dropped open into an indignant little 'o' and she shoved at his chest.

"Out, Sherlock!"

"There might still be guards out there," he argued, trying half-heartedly to deflect her swats. "It's likely not safe!"

"Fair amount safer than it is in here – out!" she repeated, reaching for the door handle and giving him another shove through the doorway.

"It was a simple curiosity - "

"And completely indecent!"

"You did it when you were eight all the time - "

The heavy door slammed in his face, but not before he saw the incensed look on her face.

And the hint of a smile.


	5. Chapter 5

Molly leaned against the door to her room and bit her lip, trying not to smile.

He hadn't left Huntingdon after all.

After seeing him nearly beaten to the ground in town, losing any support he may have had from the townspeople, she was afraid she would never see him again. The faint confidence that his return would change everything had faded faster than a dying flame. It had all looked so hopeless, but something had happened to keep him from giving up. Though why he showed up at the castle in women's garments with a bow and arrows slung across his shoulder was beyond her.

Her hands dropped away from her dressing gown and the fabric slipped open again. The sight of him in such an outfit should have left her in hysterics, at least, once she recovered from her initial shock. She'd been properly embarrassed to be caught in such a state of undress, but the afternoon was warm and she'd been expecting no visitors, least of all him. Her upbringing and the rules of polite society told her she should be more upset.

But his disguise had done very little to hide the appeal of his eyes or the crooked little smile he gave her, freezing her to the spot when he stepped closer. She really should have thrown him out immediately. She'd looked on him with the youthful eyes of a girl awed by his intelligence and striking looks for many years; but now, she felt the stirrings of something new when he was in her presence. Something similar to the things the ladies in residence whispered about a particularly dashing knight or courtier. She had felt it when he took her hand at the inn and thanked her so sincerely. And just now, she blushed pink thinking of him in her chambers.

Perhaps she should've let him stay a little longer, just until he was certainly out of danger of being found out. He would have tried harder to stay hidden if he really believed he could be caught, but she worried her bottom lip thinking she might've thrown him to the wolves.

She walked quickly across the room to the window, the smooth stone under her feet suddenly feeling much cooler as the rest of her body remained flushed. Pushing the plated glass open further, she leaned out over the sill and strained to see the path to the main gate. Sure enough, within moments, she saw his still-disguised figure on horseback, galloping out of the castle grounds. She smiled when she observed the small cluster of palace guards emerge well after Sherlock had flown from the castle, looking confused and furious with each other that anything was amiss under their watch.

She laughed, but quickly stifled her humor when she heard a knock on her chamber door.

"Miss Margaretta."

Martha's cheerful voice floated into the room as she tentatively opened the door, carrying a tray filled with sweet cakes and spiced wine. It was an afternoon ritual for them, enjoying the time away from prying eyes and Moriarty's untrustworthy servants and attendants. Molly moved away from the window and towards the small, round table placed near the hearth and began removing the books she had been pouring over to make way for the tray.

"I saw someone leaving your chambers just now," Martha said, a smile on her face. "If I had known you were entertaining a visitor I would have waited."

"Oh," Molly exclaimed, pulling the books to her chest and digging her fingernails into the soft leather of the binding. "It was nothing…just a new maid, she was lost, you see, got turned around - "

"Calm you heart, dear," Martha said gently with a surprisingly youthful giggle. She set the wine out for them and motioned for Molly to sit, which she did. "It's alright. I know Sherlock Holmes when I see him. I've mended his breeches and wiped tears from his eyes more times than he would admit to anybody, I'm the last person that disguise would fool."

Molly's mouth dropped open in mild surprise, but her shoulders relaxed as she realized she would not have to keep his activities secret.

"He didn't know it was my chamber," she blurted out, feeling the need to explain the circumstances further. "It was an accident that he…found his way here. He left nearly right away."

"Oh, my dear lamb, you are in no danger of appearing any less of a lady in my eyes simply because that man stumbled into your chambers," Martha assured her, cutting into a honey cake and setting the slices on plates to serve. "But I must say, if people weren't so talented at 'finding their way' into the right chambers, the midwives would have far less to do."

Molly's eyes widened and she looked down firmly at the plate in front of her, her face burning with embarrassment and amusement. Abandoning the books to the floor beside her, she reached for the spiced wine and lifted the chalice to her lips, thankful for the calming drink.

"That reminds me," Martha went on, seemingly ignorant of the state she had put Molly in, "Alice Green believes her baby may be arriving any day now. You might consider a visit to help the midwife."

* * *

Sherlock slowed his horse when he had put plenty of distance between himself and the castle, confident that no one was following. He smiled smugly as he hooked the strap of the quiver holding arrows and bow over the pommel of the saddle, freeing his hands to rip off the veil and wimple and pull the borrowed dress over his head. Stuffing the items into a saddle bag, he silently celebrated how easy it had been to slip behind the guarded walls, to completely outsmart the fools Moriarty had placed in his employ. The victory could not be allowed to make him overly confident, however. Sherlock would be assumed to be well on his way to the next shire at the moment, but he could not rely on that cover for much longer if he continued on with these…intrusions. He refused to label them as robberies, seeing as none of the fortune belonged to Moriarty in the first place.

It would be attributed to some anonymous thief this time around, but experience told him the cloak of mystery would only work for so long in his favor. Still, it would be quite exciting to see how far he could push his luck…

After slinging the quiver and bow over his shoulder, he pulled at the linen shirt that clung to his skin, previously confined by the dress, allowing air to pass between the fabric and his body, cooling him down. How the ladies spent all day constricted by such outfits was something he would never understand.

Though it seemed Molly had found a suitable solution.

The thought brought another smile to his face. She was a continual surprise to him these past few days. If he had thought it safe, if it wouldn't undoubtedly bring the wrath of Moriarty down upon him and everyone around him, he would have taken her from the castle and their little group could have flown from Huntingdon. But at the moment, she was a well pampered captive, a person Moriarty intended to keep, but care for. That was a balance Sherlock would not upset if it meant turning Moriarty's anger on her.

And he wouldn't abandon his county. Not again.

There was clearly a limit to his apathy for governance; a certain protectiveness welled up in him when he thought of leaving his home to the rule of that criminal. Blind loyalty to his country he may not have possessed, but a selfish sense of ownership and justice he could easily admit to. Not to mention Molly would have held him accountable for the fate of every soul left behind; his own personal conscience, it seemed, filling in the cracks of failing integrity within him. At the moment, she was doing more for Huntingdon than he was and with more stealth. She was saving lives and he was pilfering coins.

Suddenly his little burglary did not feel like such a victory.

Well who was she to compete for moral high ground, anyway? The people could not very well benefit from her doctoring if they were sent to prison for late payments. Really, he was keeping her patients from a worse fate. Obviously she would approve.

He let the mental argument go as his horse approached the encampment, smelling the smoke of fires and hearing the voices chattering. He was quickly approached by the small group privy to his plans as he led the horse to the makeshift paddock at the side of the camp.

"Very simple this time," he said, not bothering to wait for the questions. "I doubt it will remain so."

"You've succeeded?" John asked.

"You needn't sound so surprised," Sherlock said, loosening the girth on the saddle and sliding it off while Mary took care of the bridle and ushered the horse into the pen. Sherlock caught her eye. "I'm afraid your gown has been stretched beyond use."

She shrugged and shouldered the bridle.

"Never much cared for it to begin with," she told him with a smile.

Placing the saddle onto the fence, he turned and strode towards the main part of the camp, leading the others. He scanned the members of the camp quickly before his eyes locked on a young boy of about fourteen tossing sticks into a campfire.

"You lad," he called out. The boy's head snapped up and he jumped to attention when he saw who was addressing him. "You are quite capable of slipping into town unnoticed, are you not?"

"Very, sir," the boy said.

"Hm. And would you like to pay a few of the townspeople back for the sweets and trinkets you've pocketed over the last few years?"

The boy faltered briefly before straightening and seeming to understand that he was being given a second chance. He nodded vigorously.

"Good. What's your name?"

"Bill, sir."

"Well, Lestrade, consider Bill to be your first reformed thief from the band you so ineffectively chased around in days gone by," Sherlock said with a smirk.

Lestrade huffed in annoyance, but said nothing. Sherlock unhooked the pouch of coins from his belt, pocketed some of them, and tossed the remainder in the pouch to Bill.

"Make sure those are placed into the hands of those who need it most," he instructed. "The rest will be distributed amongst the camp."

Quickly forgiving the slight against him, Lestrade nodded in approval and wandered off with Bill to ensure the delivery of the money. John and Mary escorted Sherlock back to their campfire where a few slices of bacon were frying and another stew stuffed with root vegetables was waiting. Sherlock's interest in the food was half-hearted as he thought about how he could possibly continue to outsmart Moriarty and his men. He felt a sting of aggravation when he glanced up to see his companions barely focused on the food themselves, but for a completely different reason. If they intended to keep Mary's identity a secret for much longer in the camp, they truly needed to refrain from sitting so close. And stop gazing at each other. Good Heavens, was it so difficult to behave normally merely because they had starry eyes for each other? He managed just fine with Molly.

Not that they were starry eyed for one another.

"Practically a sister," he muttered, slouching down further against the log he was propped against.

"Who's a sister?" John asked, overhearing despite his current distraction.

"No one," Sherlock said moodily. "Thinking."

He was left alone with his thoughts, retreating so deeply into his mind that time was lost. He was finally startled out of his meditation by the sound of excited voices and he glanced up to see Lestrade and Bill returned to camp, excitedly relaying news to John and Mary.

"Sherlock, did you hear?" John asked, looking at him with anticipation.

"Hm?"

"You have more allies than you might think," Lestrade told him. "Many in town suspected you were behind the generous 'gifts.' They're ready to take up arms with you, the lot of 'em."

"And there's more'n that, sir," Bill hurried to speak, brimming with energy. "The castle thinks you're well gone. They're holding a feast in three days' time to celebrate their victory."

The corner of Sherlock's mouth slowly turned up and he stared into the flames of the fire.

"John," he said confidently. "Do not shave your beard just yet. We are going to need the disguise."

* * *

On the evening of the feast, Sherlock felt waves of excitement flow through him that he had not felt in a very long time. Great work had gone into finding the right clothing and planning every detail until Sherlock was met with tired stares when he tried to seek more counsel on the subject. John was a willing participant, though he took some convincing when it came to giving up his woodsman clothing for one night. Sherlock ascertained that he relied on the furs and wool as part of his cover, the items having kept him safe from the bounty on his head for many successful months. He stood uncomfortably in the minstrel outfit, looking quite doubtful, until Mary spoke up.

"I think it's very nice," she said quietly, hands in her trouser pockets and shuffling her feet.

"Really?" John said, his chest lifting slightly. Mary nodded and looked at the ground.

"Very," she repeated.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and shoved the tabor he had borrowed from one the men in camp at John. He found himself quite glad he had decided to make Mary his assistant for the night; he was better off going by himself rather than put the two of them together on this undertaking.

"Yes, yes, you look lovely," he said dryly, securing his green cloak around his shoulders and donning a matching woodsman's hat, perfecting the look of a hunter. John stared down at the tabor with an uncertain expression.

"I'm no musician, Sherlock," he said. "Are you sure this is the best charade?"

"No one will give you a second look, especially if it appears you've been into the wine," Sherlock assured him. "That's the beauty of servants in a household like Moriarty's…they are only part of the scenery."

With their roles solidified, the trio made their way in twilight to the castle, parting ways once they had slipped in the main gate amongst the wagons and horses carrying gilded party guests and their servants and attendants. Sherlock knew many were there under duress, looking to appease the usurper, while others were ardent supporters.

He nodded to John as his friend followed a small group of servants, knowing he would fulfill his role well, keeping watch on the east side of the great hall and ready to sound the alarm if it looked as though Sherlock had been discovered. He was relying on the majority of the guards to be placed along the hall, too busy watching the revelry to be concerned with the dark corridors, even considering the recent burglary. He led Mary around to the servant's entrance of the kitchen, giving her a reassuring smile when he rapped on the door. Candlelight spilled out into the darkening evening when the door flew open, a harried looking woman glaring at him while she wiped her flour covered hands on her apron.

"What d'you want?" she demanded, looking irritated at having been interrupted on such an important night.

"Delivering the pheasants," Sherlock said, sounding bored and gesturing to Mary as she held up the brown sack bulging with five fat birds. He kept his face tilted down and his expression hard, knowing that a simple change like that was often all that was needed to fool anyone. Attitude could be everything when it came to disguises.

The woman looked between the two of them and narrowed her eyes.

"Already got birds," she said testily. "No one told me about any more."

Sherlock sighed with impatience and deliberately pulled his gloves off while he spoke.

"Sheriff Moran told me to deliver pheasants at the request of Sir James," he said, trying not to say the name with a sneer. "It is not my fault your workers are too stupid to keep you informed of the goings on of this household."

"I run this staff better'n anyone, I can promise you that," the woman snapped at him, placing her hands on her ample hips. "And the fact is, I don't have time to pluck more birds - "

"I'll do it, ma'am."

A strong female voice came from inside the kitchen, interrupting the cook's tirade. The woman ground her teeth, considering, before finally stepping aside and flinging a hand in the air.

"Come in, then," she said, bustling out of the room before Sherlock and Mary had stepped fully inside. It was little more than an antechamber, a preparation room connected to the main kitchen where more servants could be heard.

He was able to lay eyes on the source of the voice – a young woman with an olive complexion and piercing dark eyes, her curling hair pinned back under a kerchief. She was covered to the elbows in flour and other remnants of cooking and looked entirely familiar. Someone left over from Mycroft's servants that he had seen before…

"Sally," she told him. He froze and internally planned the best escape, unsure of her loyalties or if she recognized him at all. "We only met once or twice before, sir, I don't expect you to remember me. S'alright. I won't say a word."

Sherlock heard Mary let out a breath behind him.

"You've stayed," Sherlock stated.

"Would have been hard for me to find a position like this anywhere else," she told him, continuing to roll out dough for meat pies. "Your brother always treated me very well. I did what I could to secure my place here. But don't worry – I care very little for the new master."

For a few moments, the only sound in the kitchen was the thump of Sally's fists against the dough while Sherlock stared at her, surprised by her bluntness. She looked up at him and gave him an amused smile.

"Well go on," she said. "Off with you! I can't wait to hear what you take this time."

Sherlock blinked rapidly, but held out his hand for Mary to hand over the sack of birds. He walked over to the table and dumped them out while keeping his eyes on Sally.

"Does the castle suspect - "

"Oh lord no, those guards were absolute idiots, couldn't tell a pig from a sheep," she said quickly. "But there are those of us who just knew. It was an absolute delight to see his ' _lordship_ ' so confused and upset. Far more entertaining than the usual amusements."

"The usual?..."

"When he's particularly unpleasant," Sally said, looking down at the dough with a grin as she took a rolling pin to it, "I spit in his food."

Mary snorted beside him and clamped a hand to her mouth to repress her laughter. He gave her a humoring smile and told her to stay put, grabbing the cloth sack and leaving her to Sally's offers of wine and clean food.

Pulling his hat down and taking on a rougher posture and gait, Sherlock made his way into the corridors of the castle, skimming the edges of the passageways and staying in shadow as much as possible. Not a single head turned in his direction and he managed to avoid the mess of guests in the great hall just starting to feel the effects of the drink and festive atmosphere, their voices growing louder and laughter filtering out into the rest of the castle. At a less populated archway, he slipped closer to the merriment and peered into the crowd, recognizing many faces from his forced days at court. He could see Moriarty and Moran seated at the raised table on one side of the hall, enjoying a gluttony of food and looking down on the feast with smug, triumphant faces. His gaze drifted over the room, looking for a petite form that he only half-pretended he was not interested in seeing, but unable to find.

When he reached the east side of the corridors, he spotted John leaning against a stone wall, his tabor abandoned on the floor and his hand grasping what was sure to be an empty chalice, his other laced around the waist of a servant girl. She looked all too pleased with the attentions and did not notice John's quick glance and nod towards Sherlock as he passed by.

As he expected, there were now two guards standing outside of the steward's chambers, both looking far more competent than the last one. He sauntered up to them, pulling a parchment from inside his tunic.

"I have come to collect payment," he told them, handing the easily forged document over to the nearest guard. "For services to his Lordship."

The guard looked at the parchment for several long moments, exchanged a look with his companion, and nodded. He took out a ring of keys and unlocked the door, stepping inside. Sherlock followed and was shadowed by the second guard who stood close. The first guard made a show of accessing a treasury box, retrieving coins one at a time and carefully noting the amount in the ledger. Sherlock watched it all with great interest, stepping forward at the appropriate moment to open his cloth bag and allow the guard to drop the coins into it. He thanked the guard and was about to close the bag when a commotion from the door turned their heads.

Just as planned, John stumbled into the room, sloshing wine from a chalice and looking about, completely confused.

"This is not the garderobe," he slurred, stepping closer to the second guard and wavering a bit, leaning on him for balance. The guard looked thoroughly offended.

"Indeed it is not," he said, looking to his companion for help with the situation.

Both men went to remove John from the room, but being the clever little man he was, he lost the coordination of his legs and ducked under the arms reaching for him, tottering into a table holding a variety of items of gold and silver. Trays, chalices, and artistic forgings crashed to the ground along with John, and the guards swooped in the pull him to his feet.

Sherlock tipped the contents of the treasury into his bag and quickly switched it with another unopened box.

"Good lord, man, can you not see that you are disrespecting the house of Moriarty?" Sherlock demanded heatedly, grabbing for one of John's arms. "How dare you behave so in his Lordship's home?"

"He's nothing but a drunken fool," one of the guards sneered, pushing John towards the door.

"Please allow me to remove him from the grounds myself," Sherlock said, keeping a firm hold on John's arm. "I am preparing to leave and would not want to see you disturbed from your important post."

The guards easily agreed, waving him off with a disdainful look at John. The two of them moved quickly through the halls, or as quickly as they could with John feigning drunkenness. It was with great relief that they entered the antechamber of the kitchen again, collecting Mary and being sent away with several pies by Sally. They had nearly crossed the castle grounds to the gate, lit up by torches and fires, when Sherlock's eyes drifted to a window on the second floor. He stopped when he saw a shadow in the window.

"Sherlock," John whispered impatiently. "Come _on_! We've done it, we need to leave."

"You and Mary go," he said, handing the bag of coins over to John and starting to walk back to the castle walls. "There is something I need to do."

He glanced back and saw the two forms retreating from the grounds as he reached the wall, glad they had followed his order. Looking up at the stones, his hands slid over the surface until his fingers found a hand hold. Moving swiftly and carefully, he hoisted himself up the stones until he reached the sill of her open window, heaving his body up with both hands and swinging one leg through the window. He landed heavily on the floor of her chambers and looked up to see Molly and Martha staring at him from their position in front of her looking glass.

Martha was adjusting the sheer white veil gracing the crown of Molly's head; her hair was braided and twisted up in an intricate fashion with a silver chain lacing through it and across her brow, small, twinkling amethyst hanging from the chain that matched her purple gown. A gown that was decidedly more elegant and flattering to her figure than anything he had seen her in before. Her scent drifted across the room to him and filled his mind – sweet orchids. He cleared his throat.

"Martha, leave," he said brusquely.

"Oh Sherlock," Martha said sadly. "I haven't said a word to you in two years, and this is how you say hello."

"Hello," he said, looking at her pointedly. "Now please leave."

"I haven't finished with her hair - "

"She looks the height of fashion, you've done your part very well. We can have a tearful reunion at another time, thank you."

He watched Martha exchange a look with Molly before she gathered her skirts and left the room. Smiling, he turned back to Molly and was disconcerted to see her glaring at him.

"What are you doing here?" she demanded.

"You're angry with me," he said, deciphering her mood.

"Yes."

"What on earth for?"

"Making me a part of your crimes," she said tersely, taking one last look in the glass before turning away and walking primly to the middle of the room, clasping her hands in front of her stomach. Sherlock gave her a bemused look.

"Crimes?" he repeated.

"And using my chambers to hide," she said.

"Oh," he said, stepping further into the room. "I take it you've discovered the events of my last visit."

"Yes. And I don't want anything to do with it," she said, her chin tipping up. "And if that's the reason you're here now, I will ask you to kindly leave."

He studied her for a moment, wondering if she was only being contrary because of his teasing on their previous meeting. Coming to the conclusion that she was quite serious, his brow lowered in vexation.

"You don't agree with my actions," he said. She shook her head. "You've been doing your part, sneaking around and letting people loose from the stocks," he said slowly with a sharp look.

Molly's mouth pulled tight but she did not deny his words.

"I've been saving people," she said. "It's a bit different."

"How exactly do you figure that?"

"It's thievery, Sherlock," she said, her tone full of admonishment.

"To give the people of this county back what is rightfully theirs," he bit out, not understanding why he was forced to defend what he had done. "James Moriarty is the thief, not I."

"Then deal with him," she said, stepping forward and giving him an entreating look. "Find a way to get rid of him, but don't stoop to his level. Because I know you, I know what this is to you – it's a game, it's a bit of fun. He's dangerous, Sherlock - "

"Molly, it would best for you to stick to doctoring and stay out of things you don't understand - "

The stinging pain of her palm striking his face stunned him into silence. He worked his jaw carefully for a moment, willing the bite of the slap to go away before he looked up to meet her eyes. Eyes that were burning with anger.

"Don't you dare," she said, her voice unnaturally low. "Don't you presume to tell me what I do and do not understand, to assume what I know. You've been gone for two years…it's you who doesn't understand."

It took his mind a moment to catch up to her words, but when he did he found he was absolutely shamed and sickened.

"Has he touched you?" he questioned her, unsurprised by the anger in his voice.

"No," she told him firmly. "But not a day goes by that I do not fear it."

His temperament changed immediately and he stepped towards her, throwing propriety aside as he took her hand in both of his, lifting it to his lips and letting them linger against her skin for far longer than was proper. He thought briefly that he wouldn't mind feeling her skin against his lips every day, soft and pleasant as it was. Releasing her hand, he looked up to find her lips parted and her brow drawn in confusion.

"He will meet God," Sherlock said, placing a hand along her cheek, "before he ever lays a hand on you. I promise you that."

Molly blinked and her brow relaxed, looking up at him with wide eyes as she timidly stepped closer. His own expression turned to one of confusion when she raised herself on the tips of her toes and placed a gentle kiss on his cheek, easing the place her hand had struck just moments ago. Stepping back again, he could see the pink flush in her face and along her neck and he felt the overwhelming desire to follow the flush with his lips. He would have, were it not for the knock at the chamber door.

"My lady," Martha called insistently through the door. "His Lordship requests your presence. I would not keep him waiting this night."

He felt her fingers slip from his hand as she gave him a modest smile, stepping backwards towards the door. When she had left the room, Sherlock took a deep breath, still smelling her lingering scent mixed with the smell of burning wax. He turned and strode towards the window, intent on leaving before the aroma could intoxicate him any further.

The blood in his hands pulsed a little stronger as he gripped the stones on his climb down from her window, landing on the soft ground quietly and hurrying from the castle grounds. He found John and Mary waiting for him at the edge of the forest and John gave him a look.

"Practically a sister, indeed," John said with a smile.


	6. Chapter 6

On all but the warmest of days, most every chamber of the castle was cool and slightly damp. On days when it rained, the sky opening for hours or days at a time, the entire household felt wet and Molly was sure she could not take ten steps without encountering a drip. When she had woken in the morning to dark skies and the sound of a steady downpour, she made for the ground floor and the room with the most plates of window glass – the library. The features of the room helped to keep it slightly drier than any other and the small fire warmed her as she read.

It made her long for the warmth of her father's home with its windows open to the sunshine, the hearth in the kitchen always glowing and inviting. She shook her head when she realized she had been staring into nothingness for several minutes, forcing her eyes to return to the heavy tome she had pulled from the library shelves. Mycroft Holmes had an enviable collection of books, far greater than any she had ever seen, and it was fortunate that James had chosen to leave it untouched. It was one of the few chambers in the castle in which she was left alone to do as she pleased. At the moment, she was pouring over a text on the healing properties of certain plants, grateful to escape the deadly tension of the rest of the castle.

Five days had passed since the night of the feast and punishment had landed quickly on the members of the guard who had let Sherlock slip through their fingers. James had been beyond enraged, or so she heard. She'd stayed enclosed in her chambers so as not to tempt his anger. To her horror, rumors had traveled that a figure was seen climbing down from her window. The library was as far as she dared venture in the days since.

A knock at the door made her jump and she was relieved to turn and see Sally poke her head in before entering with a tray of food.

"Sally, how are you today?" she asked.

"Well, my Lady," Sally replied as she set the tray on a small table next to Molly. "And you?"

"Keeping out of trouble," she said, sharing a knowing smile with her.

Deliberately delaying as she rearranged the food on the tray, Sally glanced at the door.

"Peter the saddler has been suffering from a bad cough again. Bedridden. Moriarty's physician has been _unable_ to attend to him and will continue to be so as the household is preparing for a journey to London. Summons from the palace. Unfortunate, is it not?" Sally said as she poured a cold glass of water into a chalice.

It was one of the things Molly truly admired about her; Sally had the uncanny ability to know the business of half of Huntingdon and the workings of the castle, never failing to alert Molly when her services were needed. She was skilled at the way she worked, if a bit frightful in her manners at times. Then again, Molly always did seem drawn to those who could stand a lesson in tact from time to time.

"Very unfortunate," Molly agreed, sitting down at the table and reaching for a small berry tart. "His services will be required to attend to James, I gather?"

Sally nodded and straightened up, her hands coming to rest on her hips.

"His Lordship's caravan leaves in the morning. Sheriff Moran will be following the next day."

"What a pity," Molly said, pursing her lips into a false pout.

"Indeed," Sally said, her eyebrows raising. "Whatever shall we do without them?"

The rain lessened as the day went on and Molly finally left the library when the servants began the evening task of stoking fires in the hearths and lighting the lanterns and torches. Her skirts brushed along the floor as she moved through the castle passageways, seeking out a page to deliver a message to the stable. She wanted her mount saddled in the late morning. With James leaving, she would be more at liberty to come and go as she pleased; no trying to hide her movements.

The page ran off immediately to deliver her message and she turned to walk back to the main stairwell. Her heart nearly jumped into her throat when she turned the corner and came face to face with James. The light from the torches flickered unnaturally over his face, leaving him half in shadow as he leaned against the wall, the silk and gems of his attire glinting slightly. It took her a moment to realize he was not looking directly at her; rather, his eyes focused just over her shoulder, unmoving and dark. Still as stone. Her skin crawled.

"Sir," she murmured, offering the smallest of curtsies.

His eyes drifted to look at her.

"Going riding, Margaretta?" he said slowly, his lips moving lazily.

Molly felt her mouth go dry.

"I felt…after all this rain, I felt that it would be nice. To go riding," she said quietly.

In an instant, James had turned and placed his mouth close to her ear, his shoulder pressing into hers. She backed away until she felt the wall behind her, wishing she could run without igniting further ire from him. His breath was hot on the side of her face and it suddenly struck her that no man had been this close to her before; not in this way.

"You're a clever girl," he said, his voice a threatening hum. "It would be wise for you to mind yourself while I am gone. I would take you with me, but, well…you would only be in the way for what I have planned. I know how much you value your purity."

She flinched and bit her tongue to control her hatred as his lips brushed against her ear while he spoke. James stepped away from her and grinned, turning on his well-polished heel and striding away.

"I will be informed if you have any visitors, my Lady," he threw over his shoulder as he disappeared down the corridor.

* * *

 

The care with which Molly slipped from the castle and down to the stables the next day was great. Waiting until James' caravan had departed only reduced her chances of being watched a small amount. The whole household turned out to send the party off and most people were still bustling about after they had gone. Unable to wait any longer, Molly donned her grey cloak and pulled the hood up, choosing the servants' stair as her route to exit the castle. She crossed the grounds quickly, lifting her skirts to avoid the rain-muddied dirt. The stable boys were playing a dice game when she walked into the wooden building, but her horse was saddled and tethered, waiting for her. The boys barely paid her any mind as she gathered the reins and swung up into the saddle without so much as a mounting block, taking off at a fast trot.

She took the back roads to Anderson's inn, looking over her shoulder every so often and fearful that she would be followed. The air was crisp and clean and the woods exuded the heavy scent of damp foliage. It contrasted sharply with the slight smell of mildew from the old walls of the inn as she stood on the back stoop, waiting for the door to be answered.

"You'll have to be quick, Molly," Anderson said in a hushed voice as the door swung open. "Three of Moran's flunkies are filling up on ale in the great room."

"Shouldn't they be preparing for their master's journey tomorrow," she said critically. Anderson shrugged as he tugged the plank of wood from the wall.

"They'll be in fine shape if they continue on," he said, stepping away to allow Molly to gather what she needed. "They've already gone through half a barrel."

Molly gave him a tight smile and turned to look through the bags and bowls of dried plants, finding the one she needed.

"Horehound?" Anderson asked.

"Peter's cough is back," she explained, her brow lowering. "It's worse every time. I'm afraid all I can do now is try to make him comfortable."

In her time helping her father attend to the illnesses in Huntingdon, Molly learned that people often did not need to be told when they were facing death. They had a way of knowing. Usually they spoke of messages from God, making peace with their lives and waiting to meet the Lord and the angels for an eternity of peace. She understood why they easily accepted their fate, craving the ease of the end of a hard life made worse by sickness. If her father had believed in the church, he may have looked for the same comfort as his cancer took him. Then again, if the church had known he did not believe, it wouldn't have been the cancer he would have had to worry about.

Peter the saddler had the look Molly recognized as resigned when she administered the syrup she made from the horehound. That did not surprise her. His words to her as she gathered her things to leave, however, did.

"My family…will you make sure they are taken care of?"

Molly blinked, her mouth falling open slightly.

"How – I'm not sure how I can - "

"Tell Sherlock," Peter said, grasping her hand with his. "He'll make it right."

She felt flustered when she left, grabbing her horse's reins and walking to the road, feeling the need to work off energy. This was exactly why she did not approve of what Sherlock had been doing. He was having a good time ruffling James' feathers; meanwhile, people were becoming desperate to rely on him now that he was trying to right the wrongs of the last two years. If Sherlock decided to stop for any reason, or if he was caught and punished, the consequences for the people of Huntingdon would be severe.

The sudden snap of a twig behind her made her jump and she chastised herself for letting her thoughts become such a distraction. She whipped around and saw no one, but carefully stepped towards her saddle bags and slipped her hand inside, searching for the small dagger she carried with her.

"Who's there?" she called, looking hard into the brush when she heard another rustle. "Show yourself."

A figure stepped out from the shadows, clad in brown robes with the hood drawn, hands raised.

"It's alright, Margaretta. It's just me."

"Oh, Gregory," she said in relief, immediately dropping the blade back into the saddle bag. "You gave me a fright. I'm so glad to see you well, I'd been so worried since I saw you last."

"We've found out little place in the world," Lestrade told her, stepping closer and mindfully glancing up and down the road. "Forced into hiding, of course, but we make do. I'm sure Sherlock has told you all about it, though, hasn't he?"

Molly's nose wrinkled as she considered his words, suddenly realizing that Sherlock had told her none of this. In fact, she hadn't the faintest idea of where he was living or who he had been spending his time with; only the rumors of the castle and Sally's story of the most recent burglary had given her any hint. She glanced at the position of the sun in the sky before looking back to Lestrade.

"I'd like to see where you've been staying," she told him, collecting the reins of her horse again.

"Ah. Well, I'm not sure that's the best…It's very rough living. Not at all what you're used to," he said, his brow furrowing worriedly. Molly rolled her eyes.

"Why does everyone in Christendom suddenly think I've become a frail flower?" she asked impatiently. "I did not grow up as a Lady. Now take me to his Lordship, I have a word or two I'd like to say to him."

Lestrade complied quickly, leading her off the path and through the woods. The smell of campfire smoke and roasting meat reached her nose well before they crossed a shallow part of the stream, Lestrade insisting she ride to avoid the water, and walked into a camp well hidden by the forest and land. People stood and stared as she rode in, faces she recognized from the county and had not seen in some time. She took in their disheveled appearances, their clothes worn and patched or replaced with random cloth or skins. Her hand slid against the rich cloth of her gown, the color of honeysuckle, and she bit her lip, frowning.

She dismounted quickly, hands wringing the reins as she followed Lestrade towards one corner of the camp.

"Have you lost your senses entirely, Lestrade?"

Sherlock's angry voice boomed across the clearing, jolting her attention to a small cluster of tents. He was striding towards them quickly, tall boots striking the ground forcefully and his green cape billowing behind him. There was a storm in his eyes.

"What failure of your mind is at fault for your decision to bring her _here_?" he demanded, closing in on them.

"She wanted to come," Lestrade replied, standing tall.

"Oh," Sherlock exclaimed, his face softening dramatically, a hand to his breast. "Oh, she _wanted_ to come. My apologies, I did not realize there was such a suitable reason for bringing James Moriarty's prize ward to our secret hideout and risking exposure by being followed!"

"We weren't followed," Molly said firmly. Sherlock's eyes darted to hers and she felt her heart jump.

"He's not that careless," he said.

"He's not in Huntingdon," she replied. Her words stilled him and she saw his eyes narrow, darting slightly the way they always did when he was thinking far too hard.

"Where has he gone?" a familiar voice asked.

For the first time in over a year, Molly saw John. Her mouth dropped open slightly at the sight of him, his hair grown long and a short layer of whiskers covering his face. Nothing like the assistant her father had taken in. He stood next to a young man, both dressed equally haphazard in found linens and animal hide.

"Traveled to London," she said, recovering from the surprise. "Moran follows tomorrow."

Sherlock's head lifted and he smiled.

"Bill!" he called and a scrawny boy scampered out from a nearby tent, practically standing at attention when he reached them. "Deliver a message to Sally in the castle kitchen. She and Martha are the only ones to hear it, do you understand? Make sure they known that Lady Margaretta is safe with me, but they are to tell everyone that she has taken ill and must stay in her chambers, undisturbed by anyone. Take her horse, return it to the stables. Do all this and there's a gold coin in it for you."

"Yes sir," Bill cried with a smile. He stepped up to Molly and held out his hand. Barely registering what she was doing, she turned her mare over and watched him jog from the clearing, her horse trotting along after him.

Molly stared at Sherlock, not entirely sure she understood what had just happened.

"You want me locked up in my chambers when I return?" she questioned him.

"Oh no, Molly," he said, the corners of his mouth turning up. "You're staying right here. After all this time under Moriarty's rule, a little freedom will do you good."

"Freedom?" she repeated. "Hardly feels like it with you ordering me about. And where exactly am I supposed to sleep?"

"You can stay with Mary," Sherlock said, the mirth gone from his voice as he nodded towards John's companion. Molly's brow furrowed.

"Will," the young man – Mary, apparently – corrected him with exasperation.

"Right, sorry" Sherlock said with a shake of his head. He waved a hand towards the man. "Will. Previously Mary, well, still Mary. The point is, you can share with her and you'll be quite safe. Come, John, we have things to plan."

Turning quickly, Sherlock walked away from the group and towards the steep hillside on the far side of the camp. John looked at her, shrugging an apology, and followed. She was left facing Lestrade and Mary and for some reason feeling terrified at spending even one night outside of the castle. What if she had been followed after all? What if they noticed that she never returned, or searched her rooms?

"Molly, is it?" Mary's voice interrupted her thoughts. She was smiling kindly, her blue eyes bright and warm. Molly nodded. "You must be hungry. Come sit by the fire, I'll fix you a plate of something."

Molly followed her, conscious of the faces of others in the camp watching her, and settled on a tree stump next to a cheering fire. The soup Mary handed her was a bit thin, but delicious. Her eyes wandered over the small, blonde woman, curiosity about her clothing renewed.

"Why are you…I mean, if it's not impolite to ask…there are other women in this camp. Why do you - "

"Dress as a boy?" Mary finished for her. She poked at the fire to stir new life into it before sitting on the ground, tucking her knees up and leaning back against a fallen log. "My father had many debts. He drank too much and barely hid his visits to the brothels. The only smart thing my mother ever did was leave him. As soon as I was old enough, he sold me – and I do mean he sold me – to pay off one of his debts. I was to marry the son of a man to whom he owed a great deal of money. The night before I was to marry him…I stole my brother's clothing, cut off my hair, and ran with everything I had in my possession. I sold a few of my dresses in order to eat. If it weren't for meeting John, I would likely be living in some dank alley by now. I had very little left to my name."

Molly felt the overpowering desire to embrace her, but decided against the impulse. Ever since her father's death, she had been awash in self pity at her fate, pining for her old life and its comforts. Living with James could be frightening, but she was starting to see that things could have been much worse. She swallowed a spoonful of soup guiltily and stared earnestly at Mary.

"John is a very good man," she said sincerely. "He worked for my father."

"So he's told me," Mary said with a smile. "He speaks of him with great fondness."

Molly felt her chest tighten, but she smiled back appreciatively. What a band of misfits the forest had collected.


	7. Chapter 7

When it came to patience, Sherlock Holmes had always vacillated between the ability to sit for days on end, his mind highly focused and waiting for clarity, and being completely incapable of waiting one moment for an event or an answer to a puzzlement. Waiting for Sebastian Moran's caravan to roll down the road fell into the second category. His fingers drummed against the bark of the tree he was sitting in with John, some fifteen feet in the air with a perfect view of the road. Through the green leaves and branches he could see the others from the camp in their positions. It was the largest operation he'd attempted, but as long as everyone followed his instructions, Sherlock knew they would be successful.

He was still utterly confused as to attire of all the men who had agreed to participate in the scheme. He'd expressed his confusion to John when they'd gathered that morning to ride out to the main road.

"They're wearing green, why are they all wearing green?" he'd asked.

John shrugged and gave him a smile.

"It's your color – the green of Sherlock Holmes," he said simply as he turned to prepare his mount. "They like the hunter's hat, too."

" _My_  color…how can  _I_  have a color?" Sherlock hollered after him. "And why would people want to wear it?"

Looking at the group now, he was rather glad that they at least blended into their surroundings.

Moriarty relied on others to protect him, constantly surrounded by guards. Moran relied on himself, too confident in his own brawn to bother with much assistance beyond the usual lackeys. Sherlock was very much relying on the predictability of Moran's choices when it came to his travel conditions. With the large majority of protective forces gone with the Lord of the castle, there would be no one left to be considered truly intimidating.

"How long are you planning to continue with this game?" John asked, his voice low as he scanned the road.

"What do you mean?" Sherlock replied, shifting his bow slightly on his shoulder.

"Do we keep robbing and sneaking around in the wild until we get caught? Or until your brother and the King return?"

"What do you suggest we do instead," Sherlock questioned. "Hide until helps comes?"

John took in a sharp breath and his jaw tightened.

"Some of us didn't have a choice in that matter," he saw gruffly.

Sherlock lowered his head slightly, his grip tightening on the wood of his bow.

"That wasn't meant as an insult, John," he said. "You all did what you had to."

His companion made a low noise in his throat and nodded, apparently accepting the apology. Sherlock had contemplated the very worries John voiced, of course. They couldn't go on as they had been forever, but for the time being it was the only way he could think to be a thorn in Moriarty's side while simultaneously improving the lives of the residents of Huntingdon. It was worth it to watch the castle household scramble to deal with a small band of outcasts hiding in the forest.

"It's been fun, you must admit," he said with a smile.

"It's been all right," John said somewhat reluctantly.

Sherlock gave a small laugh.

A moment later, both men focused on the road below as they heard the sound of horses and a carriage rumbling towards them. As he suspected, Moran had taken the lead of the caravan, looking smart and self-important on his mount. He was followed by two mounted guards and a small wagon being driven by a sleepy, red-nosed servant. Sherlock quickly took stock of the contents of the wagon – a few trunks, most likely loaded with clothing and personal items, a sack or two of dried goods, and a thinly disguised money box.

Exactly on cue, Lestrade and two of the women from the camp wandered down the road from the opposite direction. Lestrade had pulled his hood carefully over his head, giving him an effective enough disguise without looking suspicious, and the ladies had fashioned somber gowns out of scraps of fabric from around the camp. The little group looked appropriately pious.

"Good sir," Lestrade said upon approaching Moran. "My companions and I have been traveling for many days. Would you be so kind as to spare a few farthings – enough for a meal or two until we reach our destination?"

Moran reined his horse to a stop and held up his hand for the others to follow suit. He looked at the three people before him as one would look at a particularly unappealing meal.

"Your church did not think to provide you with the means to travel?" he asked.

"We were delayed for a time," Lestrade offered easily. "Sadly, we ran out of our funds."

He reached for his purse and lifted it up, shaking it to emphasize the emptiness. With the signal they had agreed upon given, Sherlock and John slipped quietly out of the tree and started to move silently towards the wagon.

"We have nothing to offer in return for your generosity, I'm afraid," Lestrade continued. "But perhaps we could lift your spirits with a song."

He lifted his hands energetically and began to conduct his companions as they all broke into a rousing rendition of a minstrel tune. Moran and his guards seemed too confused to react at first, watching the spectacle before them with disbelief. Sherlock and John easily slipped behind their backs to the side of the wagon.

The servant driver caught their movement out of the corner of his eye and turned in time to see Sherlock draw an arrow back on his bow and shake his head firmly, stopping the warning cry in his throat. Sherlock stood mere feet from the man, arrow aimed steadily at his chest, and nodded at John. As quietly as possible, John lifted the money box from the back of the wagon and handed it over to one of the boys from the camp who disappeared with it back into the cover of the brush from which he had emerged. He then grabbed the two sacks of goods and slid them off the wagon, handing each to another man before nodding at Sherlock to let him know the task was complete.

Sherlock kept his eyes locked on the servant as he relaxed his bow, hearing Lestrade and the ladies coming to the end of the tune. In case the man got any funny ideas as to his safety, Sherlock pointed a finger at the trees above him. The man's eyes drifted up to see four men with their own bows and arrows pointed right back down at him.

"Enough," Moran shouted over the singing that was quickly becoming ridiculous.

He reached into his coin purse and extracted a few coins, tossing them to Lestrade. At the same moment, Sherlock tossed a small pouch of coins to the driver and placed a finger to his lips, hinting at the man's promise of silence. The man caught the pouch and made a wobbly gesture towards his own lips in agreement.

Sherlock heard Lestrade's emphatic words of thanks and saw the trio begin down the road as he slipped back into the undergrowth of the forest, moving quickly to rejoin his companions. They had hidden their horses well back in the trees and by the time he caught up to John and the rest, they had already secured their loot and were mounted. The money chest had been emptied into sacks and left hidden amongst the brambles.

"Loads of coins," John said in a low voice as Sherlock swung up into his saddle. "And best of all…" Reaching into the sack of goods laid across the pommel of his saddle, John extracted a goose by its feet. "Two of 'em! We'll eat like kings tonight, by God!"

"If we can manage it, we won't be the only ones," Sherlock told him.

John gave him a puzzled look as he stuffed the bird back into the sack, taking up his reins quickly as Sherlock heeled his horse into action. The others followed close behind. It was the part of the plan Sherlock had told to no one, knowing everyone would think him a fool for attempting it.

Waiting until they had left the confines of the forest and were firmly on the main road before spurring his horse into a run, he headed in the opposite direction of Moran's group.

"Sherlock!" John called out, his horse catching stride. "This is the road into town!"

"I am quite aware of that, John!"

As the first stone and wood structures came into sight, Sherlock secured his hunter's hat, loosened the pouch of coins tied to his saddle, and rode into town with his cape billowing behind him. The surprise on the faces of the townspeople only increased when he reached into the pouch and let a handful of coins fly onto the road as he rode by. He glanced behind him and saw to his satisfaction that the others had caught on, obviously following his lead as they opened their money pouches.

His mouth turned up into what could only be described as a proud smile as they made their loud, disruptive way through Huntingdon, distributing coins all along the way to the cheers and smiles of the townspeople. Shouts of "Down with Moriarty!" and "Long live Sherlock Holmes!" filled the streets, started by his own men and echoed by a great many people in the streets.

He'd nearly emptied his pouch by the time they rode out of the other side of town, blood flowing strongly in his body from the excitement.

"That was mad!" John cried, but his grin betrayed any chastising his voice held.

"We've one more visit to make," Sherlock called out, earning another look of surprise.

The small group of riders came to a stop outside of a tiny cottage. A lean-to stable and work area stood next to the house, filled with leather, metal, and half-finished saddles. Sherlock dismounted, handing his reins to John and telling him he would only be a moment. Walking up the dirt path to the door of the cottage, Sherlock paused for a moment and then knocked.

A greying man, stooping slightly from age but looking as cheerful as one could, answered. A wide smile immediately spread on his face.

"My Lord," he said happily.

"No more a Lord today than my horse, Peter," Sherlock told him, holding out a small leather bag he had kept tucked to his belt, filled with coins. Peter looked at him with tears in his eyes. "Your family will not suffer as long as I can help."

"Bless you, sir," Peter said, grasping Sherlock's hand and shaking it firmly. "Bless you."

John was staring at him with a look he felt decidedly uncomfortable with when he returned to his horse. It was a little too close to admiration.

"Stop it," he ordered.

"Stop what?"

"Looking at me as though I did something noble," he clarified as he reined his horse onto the road again. "Anyone would have done the same."

"No, they wouldn't," John told him. "And that is the reason for my look."

It was well past midday when they all returned to the camp amidst shouts of excitement and congratulations. The triumphant riders climbed down from their horses and John pulled the geese from the sack and held them up, clearly more pleased at the prospect of dinner than anything else. The camp was infinitely more impressed by the remaining coins and jewels that they had left after their ride through town. Bill appeared out of nowhere and took Sherlock's horse, leading it to the paddock.

Accepting a tankard of ale from Lestrade, who looked to be enjoying his second and the company of his female cohorts from earlier, he turned to get out of the way of the fuss and his eyes landed on the smiling face of Molly looking up at him. She was seated on a log, her creamy yellow skirts arranged primly around her. She looked quickly down at her clasped hands when he caught her eye, then back up at him, her mouth closing into a coy smile.

Blinking rapidly, Sherlock felt his thoughts halt. Not much in his life had ever caused the incessant flow of thoughts to slow down, much less stop. The good luck of his birth status allowed him to divert his attention with learning and knowledge and idling away the time with experiments and the physical exertion of riding and archery. He'd never expected to feel the calming sensation of a subdued mind from the sight of Margaretta Hooper.

He was robbed of any chance to think further on the moment when John's arm landed around his shoulder, pulling him towards a large fire where a spit was already being erected for cooking the birds. People demanded to be regaled with the story of the day while women plucked feathers and gathered what spices they had.

By the time the sun had gone down and the moon appeared as a faint image in the darkening sky, the crisp, golden flesh of the geese had disappeared and the ale had inspired a few people to pull out instruments and start a round of song and dance. Those not dancing were reclining around the fire or had found someone that appealed to them and wandered into the privacy of shadows.

Sherlock noticed that John and Mary were amongst those absent from view.

Finding himself finally left alone, his eyes began to wander over the faces of those around him until they landed on the one he sought. She stood slightly apart, watching the revelers from under the branches of a tree, a contented smile on her face.

Moving without hurry, Sherlock wandered to her side and couldn't help but notice the way she stood a little straighter in his presence, her hands busy with the hem of her sleeve. Nervous, or perhaps excited.

"You seem quite comfortable, Molly," he observed. "Not too much of a shock being away from the luxuries of the castle?"

"The luxuries are not my preferred way of living," she told him. "I would trade it for a night sleeping in my father's barn, listening to a new lamb call from a bed of straw any day."

"How you spent many a spring, if I recall correctly."

Molly nodded and silence fell between them. He was acutely aware that it was up to him to fill that silence.

"Have you seen the brook?" he asked foolishly, internally wincing at his own inabilities. He should have paid a bit more attention when his tutor had tried to make him learn of the poets and singers with their lilting words of love.

"Yes," Molly said with a demure smile and a glance down at her hands. "But not in the moonlight."

She had apparently paid very close attention. She always was a more attentive student than he.

He nodded, rooted to the spot for a moment or two before finding his legs and leading them away from the frivolity around the campfire. The cool air of the night became a bit clearer as they neared the banks of the brook, though it was still tinged with the smell of smoke and cooked goose. Prevailing was the scent of damp earth and moss, the trickle of the water over cobbles a soothing sound after the din of the party.

Upon reaching the water's edge, Sherlock leaned on his forearm against the rough bark of an oak tree, watching Molly move towards the bank out of the corner of his eye. One of the young women in camp must have taken it upon themselves to style her hair – it had been loosed from its veil and brushed out, with two delicate braids overlaying the tresses and joined in the back. It was an enchanting look, especially in the woods in the moonlight.

And when exactly did he start to find things – Molly – to be enchanting? He never had need of anything enchanting before. He could acknowledge the special place she seemed to hold in his heart without resorting to language that was better reserved for tales of chivalry and ladies who gave knights their kerchiefs before battle. Those stories were always trite and empty.

Molly was…real. So very real.

And she had been waiting for him all this time.

The gypsy's words had been right – Molly hadn't found her way to him before he'd been sent off, but he was starting to think she was quite present now.

He was drawn to her. If their world was right and he had the luxury of his title and his home, he knew what the proper proceedings would be – a brief courtship before a decadent wedding. However, they were currently residing in the forest with a band of well-intentioned thieves, momentarily enjoying the absence of an insane usurper. Proper proceedings were somewhat out of the question.

Pushing away from the tree, Sherlock joined her as she stood staring into the dark, glinting water.

"Do you still disapprove of my actions?" he asked her. "Or can we finally agree that it all might be somewhat respectable?"

Molly turned her head and peered at him, the corner of her mouth turning up in a smile.

"I can agree that my disapproval is dimming," she said, teasing. "I do not know that I can agree as to your respectability."

"How so?" he asked, giving her a gentle smile in return.

"Wandering unchaperoned with a maiden by moonlight?" she said. "Highly questionable."

"Why Lady Margaretta, I'm amazed at the insinuation," he replied, turning to gesture through the trees at the celebration only two dozen paces from their current position. "With a whole band of companions only a shout away."

"They are very fond of you," Molly said, diverting their thinly veiled words. "And I suspect, despite your fussing, that you have a soft spot for them as well."

"What makes you so sure about that?"

She surprised him, reaching out to grasp the edges of his green cape and pulling it forward to let her fingers glide along the smooth fabric. It was a startlingly intimate gesture, even given the fact that he had happened upon her chambers twice in recent days and felt her lips on his cheek.

"You haven't removed your cape all evening," she said, giving him a knowing look.

The temptation of her wit and the lure of her warm eyes and honey-brown hair finally got the better of him. Placing a crooked finger beneath her chin, he leaned down hesitantly, waiting for any sign that he had made an error in judgment. When she made no move to pull away, her eyes locked steadily with his, he leaned further and finally felt the press of her lips against his. It was a soft, delightful feeling he instantly wanted more of. Not wishing to upset her in any way, Sherlock pulled away after a few moments had passed, looking down on her face, her eyes closed, lips parted and turned up in a small smile.


	8. Chapter 8

Molly had never kissed anyone before.  Not a proper kiss, as a grown woman with someone she felt she might truly love.  The incident with Tom, the baker’s son, when she was eleven years of age did not count in her mind.  She’d agreed to a kiss on the cheek in exchange for a sweet cake, and at the last moment he’d turned his head and stolen a kiss.  She’d slapped him silly, of course, refusing to talk to him, even in polite company, for years.

Feeling Sherlock’s lips against hers made her feel entirely different, as though delightful little ripples of water were rolling under her skin.  She felt her heart skip away in her chest and, to her wonderment and slight embarrassment, she felt a warmth spread through her belly.  Unlike many girls she knew, she had not been kept in the dark as to the relations between a married man and woman.  Helping in her father’s practice had ensured she collected a good deal of knowledge about the human body.  Spending time with the ladies James chose to house in the castle had enlightened her to more colorful gossip and if they only knew how she felt with Sherlock’s mouth pressed to hers she was certain they would laughingly approve.

All too soon, the moment was over, though she couldn’t keep the smile from her face.  Her eyes fluttered open and she looked up at him, seeing him more gentle and unburdened than she had in years.

They weren’t a proper match.  He was a high born lord and she was a physician’s daughter, raised on farm.  At the moment, she found she didn’t care.

“You’ll have to return to the castle come morning,” he told her, his fingers still lightly holding her chin.  “Moriarty will know what we have done and be on his way back by then.  It won’t do to have you missing from your chambers.”

“I know,” she agreed, understanding the consequences should James find out her activities.

“Mary’s tent will be quite comfortable for you,” Sherlock said, dropping his hand from her face and stepping to her side.  His hand moved to her back, guiding her as they walked towards the encampment again, the familiarity of the gesture not bothering her in the least.  “You may even have it to yourself as I believe Mary to be enjoying John’s company for the night.”

Molly looked up at him with wide eyes, scandalized that he would speak so freely about such a thing.  By the look on his face, he seemed to have realized that he may have said too much.

“Best not to spread that to too many people,” he said.

“Best not.”

 

* * *

 

 

Most of the camp slept far past dawn, exhausted from the night of celebration and feasting.  In the thin light of sunrise, Sherlock lifted Molly onto his horse before climbing on behind her, his arms wrapped around her waist to take up the reins.  She smiled to herself, reveling in the feeling of his strength and the smell of him – pine and soil and rich smoke.  He held her tight as they rode through the forest, carefully picking their way towards the castle.

When he helped her down a safe distance from the prying eyes of the household, along the edge of the wood, his hands stilled on her arms, keeping her from moving away.

“I don’t know when we will see each other again,” he told her, quite serious.  “Moriarty will be beyond vengeful when he returns.  I will deal with him, but I want you out of harm’s way.”

“It’s all right,” Molly said, reaching up to brush her fingers along his jaw.  “I understand.  If I can do anything to help…”

The corner of his mouth turned up in a smile at her offer of help and she felt his hands drop away from her arms only to wrap tightly around her waist, pulling her closer.  Her head tipped up to meet him as he leaned down, accepting his mouth on hers so naturally that she almost shocked herself.  Nothing she had ever felt before compared to the way she felt in his arms, as though she had belonged there all along.  She let out a gasp when she felt the warmth of his tongue on her lip, the kiss becoming more than she had ever been able to imagine.  She was disappointed when it became chaste again, wanting to experience more.

“You have done more to help Huntingdon than I ever could,” he whispered against her lips.  His eyes flicked up towards the castle.  “Go now.  Before it gets any lighter.”

She smiled at him and turned away, pulling her hood up as she walked along the shadows of the tall stone walls.  Her skin went cold the moment she left the sunlight, feeling the oppressive threat of her situation like she never had before.  Glancing over her shoulder, Molly caught sight of Sherlock standing in the cover of the trees, still as a statue.  It gave her courage.

She gently pried open the door to the kitchen when she reached it, peering inside to see who was present before entering.  Seeing Sally standing over the large table, rolling out the morning’s bread dough, she breathed a sigh of relief and slipped quickly inside.

“He’s not returned yet,” Sally told her quietly, her mouth turned down.  “But he will be soon.  Sent a page ahead of the caravan.”

Molly felt her stomach turn to stone, the warmth of the kitchen suddenly gone.

“Has anyone…did anyone notice?” she asked, her brow drawn in worry.

“No,” Sally said.  “But you’d best hurry to your chambers.”

She followed the advice, moving quickly through the halls and up the stone steps, fortunately encountering no one.  Martha was waiting for her when she entered her room, her fist lifted to her mouth as she paced the room.  Her eyes widened when she looked on Molly, reaching out to embrace her.

“Oh, my dear,” Martha said.  “I was so worried.”

“I’m quite all right,” Molly reassured her.  “And no one’s the wiser.”

“We should all pray it remains that way,” the older woman told her, pulling Molly to the fireside and guiding her into a chair.  “You rest.  I’ll fill your wash basin and find you a clean gown.  Oh, you smell like a fire!”

Molly couldn’t repress the giggle at Martha’s concern, thinking of how her father used to chastise her for coming home with mud caking her shoes and grass in her hair.  ‘You smell like a wood spirit!’ he used to say.  ‘Like the wind, girl.’

Though she had to admit, the change of clothing did feel better. 

The day passed quietly and she kept to her chambers, mending a few garments that needed attention.  When night fell, the household became active, the air thick with tension as they awaited Moriarty’s return.  Hours after the first lamps had been lit, Molly heard the rumble of hooves and wagons in the distance.  She put down her thread and needle, walking slowly to her window to see the caravan moving along the main road towards the gates.  They must traveled with great haste to return so swiftly.

Her heart thudded in her chest as her eyes landed on Moriarty riding behind his guards, the coat of his mount shining in the torchlight.  Even from the distance of her window, she could see the look on his face – angry and murderous.  Sherlock had been right.  This time would be different.

 

* * *

 

 

When Sherlock returned to the camp, he felt a restlessness that would not leave him.  John teased that it had to do with a certain maiden with long brown hair, but Sherlock knew Molly was not the cause of his unrest.  He felt sure about Molly, thoughts of her steadying his mind.  Something else was plaguing his mind.  Without a word to his friends, he stood up and walked from the camp, heading into the forest without direction.

He knew they needed to think of a plan once Moriarty made his presence known again, something entirely different than what he had been playing at in previous days.  Moriarty and his men had killed before.  They had tortured and punished those who had failed to pay, failed to respect a leader they did not believe in.  The people of Huntingdon were slowly turning to Sherlock’s side, but he did not know if they were willing to fight as he surely knew they must in order to defeat Moriarty.

Sitting upon a rock by the stream, he lost all sense of time, only realizing the day was over when he looked up and saw stars dotting the black sky.  Even then, he stayed put, staring at the moonlight reflecting off of the water and thinking of Moriarty.

The man was vain and power hungry with a hundred guards and soldiers at his beck and call in Huntingdon alone.  He was not above taking any slight to his vanity out on innocent people.  But the tides were turning against him and the people had grown tired of his rule.  That was Sherlock’s advantage.

The first birds were singing by the time he left his spot by the water, making his way back to camp in the cold light of dawn.  The fires had burned down to glowing embers, a few tendrils of smoke curling up from the pits.  He knelt by his tent, reaching for his water skin and taking a long drink, watching the few people who were awake starting their daily tasks and stoking embers into cooking fires.

The quiet was broken abruptly by a cry of anguish not ten paces from where he was.  His eyes shot over to the source, his whole body freezing when he realized it was John’s tent.

Mary came stumbling from between the flaps of fabric, her cheeks pale as she searched the faces around her frantically.

“John?” she cried, not caring that her tunic flowing loose around her bare legs was revealing every secret she had struggled to keep about her real identity.  “Oh God, Sherlock, where is he?”

“What’s happened?” Lestrade asked, staggering out of his nearby tent and rubbing his eyes.

“He’s gone, John’s gone,” she said, near panic, as she held up her hand for Sherlock to see, palm upturned.  “There’s blood…on the blankets.”

Sherlock stepped past her, walking quickly towards the tent and flinging the flaps aside.  Amidst the blankets and furs, he could see a small patch of blood near where John would have laid his head.  He crawled into the tent, studying the ground at the back.  The skins that had been placed down as a mat were mussed and dirtied, the back of the tent ripped open and hanging loose.  He crawled back out, hurrying around to the back and looking at the ground.

“He was dragged out,” he said, pointing to the marks in the dirt leading off towards to brambles.

“Why didn’t he fight?” Mary asked.  “Why didn’t he try to wake me?”

“Perhaps they threatened your life,” Sherlock said, still busy looking at the disturbances on the ground and where they led.  “There were two of them…others waiting,”

“What does this mean?” Lestrade asked.

“It means that Moriarty is back,” Sherlock told them, feeling anger boil up in him.  “And he knows where we are.  Tell everyone to pack their things.  We need to move.”

While Lestrade turned to spread the word that they were no longer safe, Mary grabbed his arm, forcing him to look at her.

“What will they do with him?” she said, her voice breaking. 

“He won’t do anything with John until he knows he has my attention,” Sherlock said, watching the rapidly quickening movements of the members of the camp as they began to break down tents and pack their things.  “That’s all he wants…to draw me out.”

“Was Molly followed after all?”

“Doubtful.  They were waiting for me to go to her,” he said with a growl.  “They have gone too far with this.  Moriarty will pay…”

  

* * *

 

 

In the great hall of the castle, soldiers were seated and braying with laughter as they drank and ate their fill.  Knights looked down on them as they enjoyed their meals, eating with superiority and turning interested eyes on the ladies seated at high tables.  Music was playing and dogs barked, begging for scraps.  It was the feast all over again, a celebration of success and opulence.

Molly felt sick to her stomach, wishing she had not given away all of her herbs that soothed such an ailment.  Sebastian Moran had come to her chambers himself to collect her for dinner.  There had been no opportunity to decline as her presence had been ordered.

She’d never been order to do anything in her entire time as James’ ward.  Strongly requested on multiple occasions, but never ordered.

She watched the scene unfolding before her as she realized the change that was happening.  Her seat at James’ left hand might as well have been a shackle clamped onto her wrists.  The head table had been her place in the castle for feasts before, but the coveted seat of Lady of the house was one she had never desired; she’d feared it.  And now she was in it.

Sally had come to her chambers during the afternoon to tell her that John had been taken and was being held in the cells.  Molly had been wracked with guilt and terror.

“How did they find them?” she whispered.

“It wasn’t you,” Sally had assured her.  “They have no idea you were gone, I promise you.  This I know for certain.”

If anyone could be sure of the workings of the castle, it was Sally, but it did little to ease Molly’s mind.  Perhaps there had been guards stationed in the woods or on the road the young cook did not know about, or perhaps Sherlock had been seen, or –

“My Lady Margaretta,” James crooned, startling her from her thoughts.  “You look so very far away.  Not worried for our dear prisoner, are you?”

Molly could only stare at him, afraid to speak for fear her tongue would run away from her and insult him.  James laughed at her stricken expression.

“Don’t worry,” he said.  “No harm shall befall him if Sherlock does what I ask.  You should eat something, you look pale.”

“I’m not hungry, my Lord,” she said quietly.  After a moment, she gathered her bravery.  “What will you ask of Sherlock?”

“To die, of course,” James said simply, spearing a cutting of pork from his plate and inspecting it before popping it into his mouth.

Her throat tightened so much she was afraid she would stop breathing.

“You’re going to kill him,” she said breathlessly.

“Oh no, not just kill him,” James said, chewing thoughtfully.  “I’m going to destroy him first.  Starting with John Watson.”

“Why?” she demanded, finding her voice through her fear somehow.

“Why does a cat play with a mouse before he eats it?”

It took all her strength to contain her anger and keep her hands from shaking in her lap.

To her horror, he reached out and ran his finger along the cuff of her dress sleeve, making her shudder.  If anyone in their present company still had the decency to be offended by his too-familiar gesture, they did nothing to express their displeasure or come to her rescue.

“The rose color is lovely on you, Margaretta,” James murmured.  “But I look forward to seeing you in white.”


	9. Chapter 9

It had never been hard for Sherlock to drown out his surroundings, ignoring the incessant noise and lives of those around him and focusing on a single problem, be it in his mind or otherwise.  It became significantly easier to do so when the problem he was focusing on was John Watson waiting to be led up to the gallows platform in the town square.

Moriarty had no interest in John, no bit of vengeance to carry out on the man currently shackled and on display in a cart.  It had always been about pulling Sherlock out of hiding, making him face Moriarty for whatever twisted plan the man had.  And it had worked.  Once Sherlock had caught wind of the plan to hang John, he knew they would have to play Moriarty’s game in order to save him.  He would not let John die because of his own taunting actions against the castle. It was an elaborate scheme to save him, but Sherlock had the support of his group behind him, working their way into town just as the crowds began to gather for the event. Huntingdon hadn’t had a hanging since before Mycroft took the title of Lord, and it was possible the people would get to see two if things went wrong – there were notices posted everywhere for Sherlock’s capture, dead or alive, with a sizeable reward.  It was likely that a few members of the town would think nothing of claiming that reward.

Sherlock watched every movement of the executioners, overseen by Moran, but his eyes flicked to Moriarty every few seconds.  Surrounded by guards, of course, and with Molly at his side as they sat on a specially constructed platform to watch the proceedings.  The whole town had turned out, no doubt wanting to see if Sherlock Holmes would come to the rescue.  However, as they were waiting for the statuesque man in his fine clothes and green cape and hunting cap, not one of them noticed the stooped figure in a linen tunic, tattered trousers, and a wide-brimmed farmers hat, holding the reins of a sorry looking mare carrying bundles of goods. He still kept his head down as much as possible to avoid rousing the crowd before he had a chance to stop the hanging.

When one of the executioners made for the cart and roughly pulled John down to the ground, Sherlock’s senses focused even more, his body tensing as he watched. One hand slid along the pack on his horse, his fingers itching to pull the bow and quiver from under the blanket. The slow increase of noise from the crowd faded away and he watched every movement of the people on the platform – placing John over the trapdoor, checking the knots of the rope, slipping the rope over John’s head and tightening it around his neck. Sherlock’s fingers closed around the wood of his bow, every single muscle taught and ready.  Words were being spoken by one of the executioners, but he didn’t hear any of it.  He watched Moran wrap his hand around the lever of the trapdoor, saw the muscles tighten as his arm prepared to pull it down.  In the few seconds that it took to pull the lever, Sherlock yanked his bow from under the blanket, knocked an arrow and sent it flying over the heads of the crowd. The commotion turned to a collected gasp as the arrow sliced through the hanging rope, lodging in the wood frame, just as the trapdoor collapsed and John fell through to the ground.

It took only a moment before complete bedlam erupted.  Guards leaped down from Moriarty’s platform and rushed towards him, held back by the angry crowd that chose that moment to let their support for Sherlock surge through.  Through it all, he could see Bill darting underfoot to get to John, the tools in his hand to release him from the shackles.  Mary was nearby along with a dozen others from the camp, fighting to get John away, but Sherlock lost sight of them as people started running in every direction, either trying to escape the violence or join it. 

Sherlock shoved the false bundles from the back of the horse and swung himself up, the hat falling from his head as he did so, and pointed the mare towards Moriarty’s platform.  The man himself was in a rage, pointing towards Sherlock and shouting at his guards to kill him.

_Let them try_ , Sherlock thought with a smile, driving his heels into the mare’s side and holding tight to the reins as she bolted forwards.  People dashed out of the way as the horse thundered into the fray.  He could see Moriarty’s eyes widen, his hand reaching for his own sword with a hesitation that showed how much he despised doing any of the work himself.  Better than that, he saw Molly’s smile as she slipped closer to the edge of the platform, anticipating his next move with perfect clarity. 

Quick as lightening, Sherlock dropped the reins, took up his bow, and sent arrows into the two guards rushing towards him, not bothering to see if they dropped to the ground.  He reached Molly a moment later and offered his help as she hitched up her skirts and made a bold leap onto the horse.  He barely made sure she was settled in front of him before drawing his bow once more and turning it on Moriarty just as the man was striding towards them, sword half drawn.

“If you loose that arrow, Sherlock, every last one of your friends will be slaughtered before the day is done,” Moriarty snarled.

“You seem determined to do so no matter the state of your mortality,” Sherlock replied.

“You know, I’m almost disappointed in you,” Moriarty said as he drew the sword fully from its sheath, the blade glinting in the sunlight.  “So very noble of you, running to save your friend and rescue the woman whom – dare I say it – you love.  It’s almost saint-like.  Where is the man of logic I sent to die in the war?”

Before Moriarty could take more than two steps towards them, Sherlock released the bowstring and watched in satisfaction as the arrow made a home in Moriarty’s thigh. His cry of anguish was lost amongst the continuing shouts of the fighting crowd and Sherlock wrapped his arm tightly around Molly’s waist, his other hand taking up the reins again and driving the mare away without looking back. 

Part of him felt guilty for riding away from the chaos he had caused, but there was little he could do.  His own band was nowhere near strong enough to take on the castle, to choose that moment to try to regain control of Huntingdon, even with the support of the town. Much more would be needed for that – and soon. 

“Sherlock, where are we going?” Molly asked, her small hands holding tight to the mare’s mane as they rode across the hills and towards the forest.

“The place where we will find out if everything went to plan,” he told her. “We agreed upon it before coming to town.  If all is well, Bill will find us.”

It wasn’t long before Sherlock brought the horse to a stop in a clearing near a brook, climbing down before helping Molly to dismount.  He paused, bringing a hand to her cheek as his eyes glanced over her.

“You’re unhurt?” he asked.  She nodded, lifting her hand to cover his.  “Good,” he said, leaning down to press a kiss to her brow and then stepping away. He pointed towards a hollow log not far off.  “There’s food and supplies hidden in there, if you are in need.  Use it sparingly, I’m not sure how long we’ll need to stay here.”

He turned, intent on keeping an eye out for Bill, but stopped at the feeling of Molly’s fingers grasping the sleeve of his linen shirt.  Her brow was drawn down and her eyes were solemn.

“I’m not going back, Sherlock,” she said firmly.  At his curious expression, she went on.  “I want to stay with you…whatever happens.  I’m not going back to that place.  Not going back to him.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” he told her.

He meant it. He knew that she was no longer safer hidden away in the castle, under Moriarty’s watchful eye but generally left alone.  There was no limit to what Moriarty would do for revenge after what Sherlock had done that day.

When Bill eventually came tromping through the trees, looking slightly worse for wear, but otherwise unharmed, Sherlock learned exactly how vengeful Moriarty was.

“Did the others make it?” he asked immediately.

“Yes, sir,” the boy told him, trying to catch his breath.  “All went to the parts of the wood you told them to. Only a few injured. But sir…”

Bill hesitated, shifting on his feet and looking at the ground.

“Whatever it is, out with it,” Sherlock ordered.

“Moriarty, he says…you see, they arrested a great many people…he says he’s going to kill a prisoner every day until you are brought to justice for your crimes. Dead or alive,” Bill said with a shaking voice.

“What else?” Sherlock prodded.

Bill swallowed hard, looking as though it physically pained him to give the information.

“The reward is higher if you are dead, sir,” he said meekly.

Sherlock’s lip twitched, though he could hardly feel surprised. Moriarty was a murderous villain and had killed for less in the past.  He looked away from Bill, his gaze directed hazily towards the trees surrounding the clearing. 

Wanted dead or alive.

There were few who knew the forest and the land well enough to track him. It would be easy to slip away and escape, but that wasn’t a choice.  He would have the blood of those in jail on his hands.  The only way to save them was to handle the situation himself, though he knew that the moment he stepped foot on castle grounds he would be clapped in irons, very probably killed before long.  He was worth more dead than alive.  Moriarty was proud and a show-off, he would no doubt revel in parading Sherlock’s body for all to see if he got the chance…

“Sherlock?”

Molly’s voice reached his ears from far away and he turned his head, vaguely aware that she had stepped to his side.  He looked down into her wide brown eyes.

He was worth more dead than alive.

“Be my eyes and ears in town, Bill,” he said distractedly.  “Report to me come daylight tomorrow.”

“Yes, sir,” Bill nodded, dashing back into the forest without another word.

 

* * *

 

The night was the warmest of the year so far, but Sherlock was still grateful for the fire lighting and warming their small encampment.  For the better part of the late afternoon and evening, he had been thinking, working out the details of his idea and questioning over and over if it would even work.  Molly had been quiet, perhaps sensing that his mind was elsewhere, though she had insisted that he eat some of the food and drink a bit of ale to keep his strength up.  It was only when he noticed her starting to rig the canvas fabric he had stashed away into a shelter for the night that he realized he had been neglecting her. He’d helped her tie it up between trees and lay out a few soft pelts, noting that she had removed her wimple and veil and tied her long hair back with a string.

He watched her sitting across from him, her legs crossed under her and the firelight making the grey silk of her dress shimmer in odd ways.  She was keeping herself busy, making a small pile of kindling to add to the fire as needed come morning.  Always so practical and obliging.

“I need your help, Molly,” he said softly. 

She looked up at him, surprise written across her face.

“Are you all right?” she asked.  “Are you hurt?”

“No,” he assured her with a small smile, sitting up from his reclined position on the ground. “No, I need something from you. Something that will help me end Moriarty’s reign for good, to restore order and peace to Huntingdon.”

Molly stared at him, her eyes widening slightly as she waited for him to reveal his plan.

“You carry the honey of the rhododendron…”

“No,” she said firmly. 

“You do, I’ve seen it at Anderson’s - ”

“No, I mean I won’t give it to you.”

“It’s the only way,” he said, spreading his hands in front of him as he explained. “A small amount ingested…it slows the heart, dulls the mind -”

“It could kill you if we get it wrong,” she said desperately.  In the firelight, he could see her eyes glistening.

“But if we get it right,” he said emphatically, “I could be turned over to the castle, given up for dead…I would be free to take Moriarty by surprise when I wake up.”

“ _If_ you wake up,” she told him, standing up and brushing the bits of dust and leaves from her gown.  “I won’t do it.  I won’t play with your life like that.”

Sherlock jumped up, reaching out to take hold of her wrist before she could turn away from him.

“You’re the only one that can help me, Molly,” he pleaded, taking her hands in his. “You know the properties of the plant better than anyone, you must do this…to save them.”

The words struck a chord in her, he could see that clearly enough.  He could also see how much she hated him for appealing to her conscience, knowing that many innocent people would die if they didn’t try to do something.  Her fingers tightened around his hands.

“I don’t want to lose you,” she whispered.  “I love you, Sherlock.”

Her declaration stunned him and he tried foolishly to find the words to return the feeling, failing miserably and settling instead for pulling her to him, pressing his mouth to hers in a desperate kiss.  Molly held onto the front of his tunic with trembling hands, her lips yielding and hungry beneath his, clamoring for a way to be closer, to feel more, just as he was.  It was warming his blood, sending it pumping with a vigor he’d never quite felt before, and he wrapped an arm tight around her waist, the other hand dipping into her hair to keep her lips against his, his body utterly taking control from his mind. Their kisses became deep, exploring in ways he was certain Molly had never done before in her life, but she only let out a happy little moan and let him guide their actions.

He felt her hands travel over the linen of his tunic, light as a feather and hesitant as they descended, fingers curling into the fabric and pulling it from his trousers.  He broke away from her mouth, his hands reaching for hers to still her movements and feeling horribly self-conscious at the tightening of his trousers.  His lips were tingling…his whole body was tingling.  When he looked at her, his guilt grew as he realized she was gazing wide-eyed at the bulge beneath the fabric.

“I…Molly, I…”

The words stuck in his throat, unable to explain to her.

“I’m a Physician’s daughter,” she told him quickly, her eyes snapping up to meet his. “I know the origin of a babe.”

Sherlock swallowed.

“Reading it in a book and _knowing_ are two different things,” he said, his voice low.

“And what if I want to know?” she asked quietly, her hand reaching up to brush against his cheek.

His cock strained even more at her words, but his mind was still winning for the moment, reminding him that Molly was not a bar wench sent to ease his body the night before battle.  She would face true, shattering shame if it was ever found out, if he did not return to take her to wife like he should. 

“Molly, what you’re asking… if I don’t return, if it’s known what we’ve done...”

_If you leave her with a child_ , his mind warned him, the fear of it overwhelming.

“My heart would beat for no other man if you did not come back to me,” she told him seriously, her eyes never leaving his.  “And I do not wish to die a maid.”

He did not know what to do, and so for several moments did nothing.  Then he felt the gentle tug of her hand and she was leading him to their little shelter between the trees, following her as she lowered herself to the pelts.  They knelt, facing each other, with the dancing light from the fire illuminating everything with a golden glow.  He watched her hands reach out once again to take hold of his tunic, slowly lifting the hem until he was forced to raise his arms and allow her to slip the cloth from his body. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt nervous to have another person looking upon him bare-chested, but he waited anxiously for some reaction from her, good or bad.

He sucked in a breath when she leaned forward, placing a kiss over his heart and running her fingers over his skin.  Nerves left him and he placed his hands on her shoulders, pulling her upright and into another kiss, his hands gliding over the curves of her body and sliding along the silk fabric of her gown. 

She wanted to be his.  She wanted to let him be with her and he suddenly realized he, too, wanted that, more than anything else in the world. 

His fingers fell over the ties of her lacing just at the crest of her back and he gingerly tugged at the cords until they fell loose.  He dropped his mouth to the line of her jaw, the curve of her neck, as his fingers continued to work at the lacings, pulling at them as his hands traveled further and further down her back.  A shiver went through her body when he eventually reached the end, fingers drifting over the curve of her backside as the dress was finally loosed. He pulled back to look at her as he tugged the silk away from her shoulders, revealing the light chemise below. Her eyes were locked on his as she helped him pull the gown over her hips, sitting back for a moment to let him slip it completely off. 

Sherlock took advantage of her reclined position, moving over her and settling to the side of her hips, feeling the warmth of her skin through the thin chemise. Her skin was practically glowing in the firelight, her lips swollen from his kisses.

“I will live for you, Molly,” he said softly, placing a gentle kiss to her mouth. “I promise.”

She took his face in her hands, forcing him to look at her, and he had the distinct impression that she was trying to burn his face to memory, her eyes darting over him with intensity.  Then she pulled him down and kissed him, wrapping her arms around his shoulders to press his chest to hers.

  

* * *

 

 

Molly could barely breath, so overwhelmed with the feeling of Sherlock kissing her, his strong body covering hers, the thought of what she would have to do once the sun rose… she pushed the last thought away, not wanting anything to sully the moment.  She only wanted to know the pleasure of being with him.

Every touch was like lightening, so new and wonderful.  She could feel his hand sliding down over her hip, across her thigh, then jumping over to the leg nearer to him and trailing back up under her knee…pulling her leg up into a crooked position…fingers travelling higher, under her chemise.  She was shaking, she knew, but it was far more from pleasure than fear.

“Molly,” he murmured in her ear.  “Have you ever… _practiced_?”

For a moment, she wasn’t entirely sure what he meant, but when she realized, she felt her skin grow even hotter than it already was, sure she had turned crimson. It wasn’t something that was usually talked about, even if she had heard the other ladies at the castle uttering words that surely implied…

“S-sometimes,” she confessed, slightly breathless.  She recalled times when she’d pressed her thighs together just a bit too tightly as she sat, or let her hand slip down to the apex of her legs when she lay in bed at night, the pressure bringing her a light, aching pleasure that was never quite satisfied.  Her skin flushed even more at the thought.

“I don’t ask to embarrass you,” Sherlock assured her, his lips trailing over the skin below her ear.  “Only to make sure that I’m not about to shock you.”

So distracted by her own mortification, she’d failed to realize his hand had found its way to the top of her thigh and in the next moment he placed one finger gently along her folds, tracing the edges with a feather light touch. Her muscles tensed for a moment before the wonderful sensation of what he was doing took over and she let out a sigh, a small smile playing at her lips.  He was terribly careful with her, slowly working his finger inwards. Molly could feel her flesh pulsing and moisture pooling between her legs, unlike anything she’d ever felt before. When his finger dipped into her center and dragged up to her little mound of flesh, her eyes shut tightly and she let out a small cry. 

“Did I hurt you?” Sherlock asked, pausing.

“No,” she answered hurriedly, wanting him to continue.  “No, not at all.  I just, I didn’t know it could feel so…”

“Good?” he offered, a small smile of pride gracing his face. 

Molly nodded in agreement, still almost at war with herself for how she felt. She’d heard a myriad of rumors in her life about ‘wifely duties’ and the type of women who enjoyed sharing a bed with a man.  But she decided that if being with a man could feel this magnificent, there was no earthly reason she could want it to be any other way.

It could have been minutes or an hour that she lay there, feeling his fingers coax pleasure out of her that she didn’t know existed.  Her breath grew ragged and when he gently slipped a finger inside of her, her hips rose up to meet him with hardly a thought on her part. She felt him pull at the straps of her chemise, tugging it down to expose her breasts before lowering his head to take her flesh into his mouth.  Her hands went to his head, fingers tangling in his soft curls while the pressure built in her body, finally cresting in a wave of pleasure that made her shudder against him, holding onto him until it stopped. 

Sherlock’s hand slipped away from her and he let her rest against him while she caught her breath.  Somewhere in her mind, she wondered where he had learned to do what he did…but the thought was fleeting and hardly concerned her.  From what she’d heard from other women, she was lucky that he was being tender with her at all, especially considering she’d never been with a man before.

When he shifted against her, she was reminded that what she had just experienced was not the end.  It was hard to imagine that there could be more, that she could feel more than she already had.

Molly slid her hands down the smooth skin of his back until she reached the edge of his trousers.  His hands came down to join hers, pushing at the fabric and freeing himself of the clothing.

In her many years of helping her father, Molly had seen her fair share of male bodies, but never had she seen one so…well, so _functional_. Or appealing.  It was both terrifying and exciting, knowing what was to happen. For she did know – she understood the mechanics of how it all worked, probably more so than most unmarried women her age. But as Sherlock had said, there was knowing and then there was _knowing_.

She was ready to know.

Sitting up slightly, she grabbed the hem of her chemise and pulled it over her head, leaving her completely bared to him.

Fighting the urge to avoid his eyes, she sat there on the bed of pelts as his eyes raked over her, his hands reaching out to tenderly run over the body now exposed to him. Her heart started pounding as he leaned in to kiss her, pressing her back into the cushion of furs below and nudging her legs apart to settle against her.  She could feel him, and her body instinctively arched towards him, wanting.

With a gently thrust of his hips, Sherlock pushed ever so slightly into her and Molly gasped, her hands clutching his back.  Her body burned, but overriding the twinge of pain was the delightful pulsing, the need for more of him.  Slowly, he filled her, pausing every few moments to allow her body to accept the newness until she felt the press of his hips against her own.  Now, she could feel him shaking above her as he braced his weight on his arms, his skin glistening with a sheen of sweat.

“Are you all right, Molly?” he asked, his voice rough and strained.

“Yes,” she whispered, peering up into his eyes to let him see the truth of her answer.

She held onto him as he moved inside her, his head dropping to the curve of her neck as his heart pounded a rhythm against her body.  She knew he was trying to be careful, but eventually the desire became too strong and he moved against her with greater ferocity, his whole body seeming to convulse as he pressed deep inside of her, his warm seed spilling into her. With his arms wrapped strongly around her, all she could do was try to catch her breath, reveling in the sensations of being with him.

When his breathing had finally slowed, Sherlock slowly pushed himself up, leaving her suddenly chilly in the night air and strangely sad at the loss of their connection. He reached for a wool blanket and draped it over their bodies, wrapping an arm around her waist to pull her close.

Molly closed her eyes, feeling his breath even out as he drifted into slumber, and prayed to a deity she wasn’t even sure existed.

_Please…please let him live. Let him come back to me…_


	10. Chapter 10

The sun was barely creeping over the horizon when Anderson opened the kitchen door of his inn and let Sherlock, Molly, and Bill inside.  The room was filled with the smells of baking bread and wood smoke, hardly any different from the air outside.  Half the town had suffered from Moriarty’s forces and buildings still smoldered. Unlike the first time the town had been terrorized in that way, there were now rumblings of revolution, or so Bill told them.

Molly could hardly think about the war that was about to begin in Huntingdon, not when she was being ushered towards the wall where she kept a vial of liquid that could very well kill the man she loved. It was a task that she would have tried to run from no matter what the circumstances, but on that morning it seemed that it would be easier to fly to the sun than to hand him that vial. The night before had opened her heart in ways she never thought possible, unfolded like a rose, and just like those blooms that had appeared every spring in her garden, there was no closing back up. She was done for with Sherlock Holmes.

But he needed her.  He needed her skill and support, putting all his trust in her capabilities.

She’d doled out the honey of the rhododendron before, but never for what Sherlock was planning.  It had been reserved in the past for bad cases of fever, illness, often for when her father needed to perform surgery and it was kinder to nearly kill the patient than make them suffer through it awake.  And of course, when she knew that someone was dying, horribly, and their last hours could be soothed by it, she spooned it into their mouth and held their hand and talked to them comfortingly until the last breath was released. 

She blinked back tears at those memories, forcing them far from her mind and refusing to allow them to penetrate that moment. Thinking of the dying was the last thing she needed distracting her.  Her fingers slid along the wooden board and once she had found the small holds in the grain, she tugged and it came loose.  With a shaking hand, she reached up to the top shelf and pulled down the dark glass vial. When she turned around, Anderson was standing with a wooden spoon in his hand, holding it out reluctantly.

Sherlock had been quick in his explanation of their plan, making sure Anderson understood his part in all of it. Turning over a spoon was the man’s silent agreement, though he looked rather unhappy about doing so.

The cork made a small pop as Molly pulled it from the vial and she placed it on the table, holding her hand out for the spoon. The dark golden liquid dripped from the vial and she counted each drop carefully.  When the right amount had been poured, she set the vial next to the cork and stepped up to Sherlock.  He was looking down at her expectantly, waiting for her to hand it over.

Not caring that they had an audience, Molly lifted herself on tiptoe and pressed her mouth to his, her free hand clinging to the front of his tunic.

“Don’t you dare leave me,” she whispered.

To his credit, he gave her no poetic promises or final declarations.  He simply stroked her hair and dropped a lingering kiss on her forehead before reaching for the spoon and prying it from her hand.

“You understand what you need to do?” he asked Anderson, his expression suddenly dark.  The innkeeper nodded.  “Then follow me.”

Sherlock led them outside and into the woods from which they had come.  The mare was tied to a tree trunk, a makeshift litter attached to its body and dragging on the ground behind it.

Bill walked up to the mare and opened his palm, offering her half an apple to soothe the animal as Sherlock moved towards the litter. He rested on the edge, his eyes focused on the liquid he held in his hand.  The rising run slanted through the trees in strange, shifting patterns, casting his face in odd shadows.  Molly watched his lips part as he raised the spoon to his mouth, swallowing the honey. Her eyes closed and she held back a sob.

“How long before it takes effect?”

Licking her lips, she forced her eyes to open again and looked at him.

“A few minutes.  An hour,” she said, her voice unsteady.  “It depends.”

Sherlock nodded, tossing the spoon to the ground. He held his hand out to Molly and she was at his side in an instant, pressing her fingers to the inside of his wrist to feel the changes in his pulse.  For several long, terribly silent minutes, nothing appeared to be different. But then all of a sudden, she saw his body sway and she reached out to steady him, feeling his heartbeat jump beneath her fingers before gradually slowing.  His eyes went wide and he opened his mouth as though to gasp for breath, managing a few deep pulls before his eyes slid over to hers, quickly drooping closed. He became dead weight in her arms and she was forced to lower him to the canvas, completely shocked by the sight of him.

“Sherlock…”

He didn’t respond and Molly lurched forward, pressing her ear to his chest and holding her hand out to hover over his mouth and nose. 

“Is he - ”

“Shh!” she hissed at Anderson, not caring at all if she wounded his feelings.

The stillness of the forest afforded her the silence she needed, but even with the quiet she strained to hear the very faint, dull beat of his heart.  She couldn’t feel his breath at all.  Whirling around, she looked at Anderson.

“Do you have a glass?” she demanded.

“What?”

“A chalice, a looking glass, anything!” she practically shouted.

“Yes, yes,” he answered hurriedly, not needing any prompting from her to rush back to the inn, returning shortly with a small looking glass.

Molly grabbed it from him and leaned down, holding the glass over Sherlock’s mouth and lowering her head to look up into the glass. It was the smallest change, but she could see the tiny patch of fog forming.

She let out a relieved breath and turned her head into Sherlock’s shoulder, her arm encircling his chest.

“Will they notice?” Anderson asked her. “Will they check him like that?”

“I doubt it,” she told him, her voice muffled as she spoke into the velvet of Sherlock’s cape.  “Moriarty’s physicians are too stupid and lazy…”

“And Moriarty?”

Molly lifted her head and stared down at the man she loved, barely alive.

“We’ll pray he doesn’t,” she said seriously.

Bill stood bravely next to her as they watched Anderson lead the mare away.  Molly knew the path they would take:  through the center of the town for all to see, up the main road to the castle where he would turn Sherlock’s body over to Moriarty.  If all went correctly, they were to gather their forces at the castle after sundown.  The rhododendron should have worn off by then.

She tried not to think of all the things that could go wrong between now and sundown, not the least of which was the dosage still being too strong even if he had been breathing when he was carried away.

“It’ll be alright, my Lady,” Bill said comfortingly. “He’ll make it.”

“I’m not a Lady,” Molly told him sadly. She looked down at the lad and managed a small smile.  “But thank you. You’re a very noble boy.”

Bill beamed at her.

“We’ll be needing to join Lestrade and the others,” he told her, nodding off towards the woods.  “Lord Sherlock would be after me if I didn’t deliver you safely.”

Molly nodded, sniffing a bit as she followed him to the camp where the others had hidden.  He was good company and a helpful distraction as they walked along, happy to tell her about his life.  She asked how he’d come to find himself in the company of Sherlock Holmes, her heart aching for him when he told her that his mother had died when he was a baby and his father had abandoned him when he could no longer care for him. Bill had made his way, begging or working for food, finally finding camaraderie with the outcasts in the forest. Sherlock had taken to him immediately, enlisting him as a sort of squire, or so Bill told it. For a boy who had been through so much, he had high spirits.  She clung to his optimism, needing the encouragement.

When they reached the small encampment, they were surrounded and hounded with questions.  Molly explained what she could to John, Lestrade, and Mary, unable to tell them what Sherlock planned to do once he was inside the castle – he hadn’t told her.

“Did he say how many he needed gathered?” Lestrade asked.  He had shed his brown robes, giving up the pretense of the disguise and donning trousers and a tunic like all the other men.

“No,” Molly shook her head.  “Just to gather as many as could be found.”

“Well what are we supposed to do?” John demanded, shifting his weight in agitation.  “How could he do something like this?”

“I don’t know,” Molly replied, feeling her eyes fill with tears.  She caught Mary’s gaze and looked away quickly.

“How does he plan to get out of there, did he say anything about that?” Lestrade pressed.  Molly simply shook her head again.

“How in God’s name…how does he think he’s going to fight Moriarty on his own?” John asked, looking angrier by the moment at what Sherlock had done.

“I don’t know,” she said again, her vision blurring as her tears finally spilled over.

“Stop it, both of you,” Mary said sharply, putting an arm around Molly and guiding her away as she lectured the men over her shoulder. “Don’t fuss about it, just do what Sherlock wanted!  Spread word and find all the weapons we can.”

“Thank you,” Molly said quietly when they were a good distance away.  She wiped at her eyes as Mary sat her down next to the fire.

“No need for thanks,” Mary stated firmly, searching her bags for a wine bladder and handing it to Molly.  “I’ll find you some food in a moment.  But for now, drink that.  I know the look of a woman mourning for her lover when I see it.”

 

* * *

 

 

Buzzing.  Buzzing and a loud whooshing invaded his brain.  His head ached and swam simultaneously and he had the strong sensation that he was falling without ever finding the ground.  He had to wake up, he knew that much.  _Wake UP_ , his brain commanded.

His eyes snapped open and he gasped, sitting up and nearly toppling off of the stone slab he was lying on.

“Molly,” he breathed heavily, reaching out and grasping nothing but air.

It had felt like waking up from a lifetime of sleep and at the same time he felt as though only moments before he had been holding her hand, waiting for the honey to take effect.  Running a hand through his hair, he quickly assessed his condition. His hearing was slow in returning, but he realized that the whooshing had been the flicker of torch fire nearby. His eyesight wasn’t awful, but something was still making him feel like he was constantly tilting over. Looking around, he realized that he was in the grand passage, a place where his brother had always kept the family treasures to show off at feasts.  The passage led straight between the grand hall and the great tower. Exactly where Moriarty’s quarters were. Not only had his body been placed with all of the other prizes of the castle, but he couldn’t leave the spot without being noticed at some point by anyone passing into the tower.

There was no point in his plan if he stayed put. Pushing up from the stone slab, he tested his legs and found that the swaying was not as bad anymore. He scanned the ends of the passage to insure he wasn’t running headlong into a confrontation before moving quickly towards the hall, sliding along the wall in the shadows. The castle was strangely quiet and he made it to the kitchen without encountering a soul.  The same older cook whom he’d met at the kitchen door not so long ago was standing at the table, putting the finishing touches on a meat pie. Sally stood at her side, slicing up potatoes.  Both women started when he burst through the door, but the cook screamed when she caught a good look at him.  Sally quickly clamped a hand over the woman’s mouth.

“Both of you need to get out of this place if you value your lives,” he told them, looking Sally in the eyes and making sure she understood that he was serious.  He could see her shaking, but, although it was clear she was just as shocked as the cook to see him alive and standing in front of them, she was instantly resolute in her composure.  “Find Martha and get her out, get as far as you can.”

The cook nodded, her eyes impossibly wide, and she slipped from Sally’s grasp to hurry from the room.  He watched her go before turning back to Sally. The young woman was looking at him in disbelief.

“We all thought you were…you looked…”

“I know,” Sherlock said, losing his patience a bit. He gestured towards the door. “Now listen, when you’ve got out, go to town.  Find Lestrade and the others. They’ll be at Anderson’s inn. Tell them it’s time.”

Sally nodded solemnly, grabbing her cloak from a peg on the wall and rushing after the cook.

There was little time to spare and Sherlock hurried back in the direction he had come from, easing his way through the passage to the tower.  Sporadic torchlight lit the otherwise dark, winding staircase.  The door to the tower chambers was cracked open and Sherlock stopped, a wave of suspicion suddenly rolling over him.  There had always been the possibility that his ruse wouldn’t work, that something would falter in the execution.  To a point, he had succeeded, brought into the castle and left to rot in full view of everyone as he had intended. 

When had Moriarty started to suspect him? Had they already been found out, halted in their efforts before they could even strike?  No, Sally would have known…

Unable to stand the questions in his mind any longer, he stepped forward, placing a hand on the heavy wooden door and pushing it open.  Inside of the lush chamber, warm from a roaring fire, he saw Moriarty standing at the open balcony, looking out into the clear night.

“I was wondering how long it would take you,” Moriarty drawled, not bothering to turn around.  “I’ve always been curious to see how long someone would sleep under the effects of the rhododendron.  Thank you for answering that little puzzle.  Was it Margaretta who gave it to you?  I bet it was.  She’s a clever girl.”

A flash of heat and irritation swelled up inside of Sherlock.  He walked further into the room, keeping his eyes firmly on Moriarty.

“Why not just kill me then?” he ground out. “Why let me lie there until I woke up?”

“I wasn’t entirely sure,” Moriarty told him, finally turning and giving him a smile.  “And how would that look?  Me, hacking into a corpse like a madman?  The key to ruling people. Sherlock, is that you want them to fear you…but you must never let them think you’re mad.”

“It might be a little late for that.”

Moriarty let out an amused laugh and ambled towards him, his hands clasped behind his back.

“Oh Sherlock, you do entertain me,” he said. “It’s been enjoyable, but you won’t be leaving alive this time.  It will be a shame when you’re no longer around.  How devastated your followers will be.  And poor Margaretta.  Let me guess…you’ve ruined her for me.”

In an instant, Sherlock had Moriarty by the neck and shoved against the stone wall, his fury barely contained and his breathing ragged. The smaller man gripped at Sherlock’s arm, but his mouth was spread in a wide grin.

“Can I take this display of valor as a confirmation, then?  Was she as fiery as I imagined she would be?  I never did believe that innocent act she played - ”

“Not another word about her,” Sherlock growled, pressing his arm into Moriarty’s throat.

“So terribly noble, you and your brother,” he gasped out, not seeming to care that he was being threatened. “He always would take in any stray that looked pathetic enough.  D’you know that’s how I came to be in his company?  ‘Poor James, orphaned and alone, but so very clever and quick to learn’…”

He trailed off when the sound of shouting and metal being hurled against metal came up through the window.  Both of them glanced over.  The fighting had started, though it was far from the tower.

“You can kill me now, Sherlock,” Moriarty said calmly. “I won’t fight you. But what if they lose? How will they be punished for your treachery to the throne?”

Sherlock’s gaze slid over to him, taking in the dark beads that composed the center of his eyes.  There was something inhuman in those eyes, something merciless.

“ _You_ are not the throne,” Sherlock reminded him. 

Moriarty’s humor dropped from his face.

“Not yet.”

Sherlock dropped his arm and backed away, his entire body burning with the desire to kill the man and only refraining out of fear…fear for his friends, fear for the people he loved if he made a mistake, if he didn’t win.

Moriarty straightened out his tunic and cloak, eyeing Sherlock as he moved back towards the balcony.

“Shall we watch to see how it all unfolds?” he asked, gesturing to the archway.

Hesitating, assessing every move he made, Sherlock tried to work out the game he was playing.  There were no weapons in the room, nothing he could use to protect himself if it came to a fight.  But he suspected Moriarty was not looking for fair physical combat; it wasn’t his way. Carefully, Sherlock stepped up to the balcony platform, one eye on Moriarty as he moved level with him.

 

* * *

 

Complete chaos had erupted between the town and the castle.  Moriarty had been expecting the attack, sending forces out to stand in the way of the rebellion. Molly felt helpless as she watched the masses of townspeople take up arms against the soldiers. Mary had shoved a short sword into her hands, but she’d never been trained to fight, only to heal the wounded. She kept to the shadows as she had been advised as she followed Lestrade, Mary, and John towards the castle, fearing every time they crossed swords with a royal guard. Flames shot from buildings in the town and she expected that it wouldn’t be long before the castle saw the same fate as torches were carried closer and closer.

The group moved quickly during a pause in their fighting, advancing up the hill and avoiding the larger battle taking place directly in front of the castle gates.  Their path was quickly blocked by a figure appearing out of the shadows, his blade glinting in the torchlight as it swung through the air. Lestrade reacted first, heaving his sword up and intercepting the blow, throwing his attacker off balance. When he straightened, Molly could see the face of Sebastian Moran.

“You bastard!” Lestrade shouted, striking at Moran who parried and backed up for better footing. 

“Still alive, Lestrade?” Moran bellowed. “We all thought you were done for!”

“Not with you in charge, you useless lummox!” Lestrade said with a grin.  Moran cursed and brought his swung his sword high, bringing it down with a crash against Lestrade’s.  Lestrade held him at bay, looking over his shoulder at his companions when he saw John rushing to help. “Don’t!  Go, get to the castle!”

Molly had no choice but to follow when John and Mary took off, however hesitant they looked to be leaving Lestrade to fight alone. They hadn’t made it far when she looked up, her eyes drawn to the window of the great tower, golden against the dark sky.  She felt as though her eyes were playing tricks on her and she slowed to look more carefully.

“Stop,” she called out, realizing what she was seeing. “Stop!”

John and Mary halted, turning to see what was wrong. Molly lifted her hand, pointing towards the tower, her heart beating in her chest and unable to tear her eyes away. They looked where she pointed.

“Oh God,” John breathed.

Though they were still far away, she could still make out the figures of Sherlock and Moriarty standing on the tower balcony, watching the scene below.

“What is he doing?” Mary asked, shocked.

Molly shook her head, unable to comprehend what was happening.  Whatever thoughts, whatever doubts she had as to why Sherlock would be standing so calmly alongside Moriarty vanished when she saw Moriarty pull something from beneath his cloak.  He turned on Sherlock, who lifted his arms to defend himself, wrestling with him for what seemed like an eternity.  Molly’s breath stuck in her throat when she saw them backing towards the stone bannister.

“No,” she pleaded, trying to will it from happening. “No, no!”

Time slowed down as she watched Sherlock grab Moriarty’s arms just as he pitched over the ledge, holding tight as he took them both down.  The two forms were a whirl of fabric and limbs as they fell from the tower, disappearing out of sight behind the mass of fighting.

“Sherlock!” John yelled, starting forward. Mary reached out and held him, looking to Molly as she did so.

Molly felt that her heart had stopped.


	11. Chapter 11

Molly couldn’t remember starting to run.  One moment, she was watching Sherlock fall to the ground, and in the next she was hurtling through the mass of fighters, her skirts gripped up in her hands. Her breath came out in rough bursts and she felt her chest burning.  Somewhere in her mind she could hear Mary and John yelling her name, but it did nothing to slow her.  She couldn’t rip her eyes away from the spot he’d vanished.

She barely stopped in time when she reached the edge of the moat surrounding the tower, her eyes sweeping the surface of the black water frantically. Many people who had been nearby ceased their clashes and watched, desperate to see who had survived. Torchlight and flames from fires starting around the castle illuminated spots of the water and after a few moments she saw a body floating on the surface.  Clenching her skirts, she moved along the bank of the moat, straining for a better view, knowing her world would be over if…

A flare of fire danced over the figure.  The cloak was black.

Molly let out a strangled cry and dropped to her knees.  She could see no other form in the water, but it was no guarantee. She started when she felt a pair of hands on her arms, pulling her up from the ground.  Looking up, she saw Mary.

“It’s not him…but I don’t see… I don’t see,” she choked out, ready to jump into the cold water to search for him.

“Molly,” John said firmly, looking beyond her towards the gates.

Not thirty paces away, she turned and saw the shadow of a man dragging himself out of the moat, slowly pushing up to standing.  With a hope she barely allowed herself, Molly started towards him, ignoring the changing atmosphere of the battle as shouts of Moriarty’s fall spread. In seconds, she was before him, taking in every bit of him and afraid to touch him for fear that it was all an illusion.  But he looked at her, wiping water from his face, and moved forward, wrapping his arms around her body. Water soaked through her gown, but she hardly felt it, burying her face against his chest and clinging to him.

“It’s all over,” he told her, pulling back to look down into her eyes.

“My love,” she whispered, unable to say anything else as he lowered his head and kissed her.

Keeping her close to his side, he embraced John and then Mary before looking out towards the waning battle.  Standing taller than she had ever seen him, Molly watched as he stepped forward.

“Do you hear that, Huntingdon!” he shouted, his deep voice carrying over the fighting. “It’s over!  Your false Lord, James Moriarty, is _dead_!”

A roar went up from the people and Molly watched as they took the castle, protected by Mary’s sword as John and Sherlock joined the fight. 

By dawn, it was all over.  The earth was scorched and the town was half destroyed, the castle still spitting smoke from recently extinguished fires, but the people of Huntingdon had won their freedom from Moriarty.  Few had died in the battle, and Molly enlisted all should could to help tend to the wounded. When there was no one left to mend and her energy had been exhausted, she joined Sherlock and the others in the great hall, sitting amongst servants and nobles alike. Food had been brought out, to be shared with all, and much of it was sent beyond the castle gates to those recovering in the town. 

She made sure he ate, otherwise she knew he would neglect to do so for days with the distraction of what had happened.  He was just finishing his glass of wine when John and Lestrade came into the hall.

“How many?” Sherlock asked.

“We took forty-two,” Lestrade said, sitting down and reaching for a piece of roast meat. “Eight of Moriarty’s soldiers met their end.”

“It seems that his noble supporters have fled,” John added.  “Likely to the North.”

“Mm,” Sherlock responded, placing his cup down.  “Let them go.  They’ll never return, and if they do, we’ll give them the proper welcome for their betrayal. If the crown chooses to go after them, that’s London’s business.”

“The prisoners, can you hold them all?” Mary asked.  “Is there room at the jail?”

“Not really,” Lestrade told her with a smile that gave away his pleasure at locking them up.  “But they’ll manage, I’m sure. They can sit on Moran when their legs grow tired.”

Sherlock chuckled briefly, then sat back in his chair and stared at the fire at the end of the hall.  Molly watched his eyes darken, his expression turning sober.  John cleared his throat and shifted on his feet.

“His body?” he asked.

Molly cringed at the words.  So very easily, it could have been Sherlock floating face down in that water.  She could have ended up right back at James’ side, watching his people dispose of Sherlock in whatever cruel way they planned. She did not think she would have lasted more than a day.

“An unmarked grave,” Sherlock instructed.  “Outside of town.  Keep the party small.” John nodded his understanding. “As for those who fought for me and perished…give them all possible honors, no matter their position in life. Mary, I want you to go through the treasury.  Give the families a generous recompense for their loss.  Then enlist all skilled craftsmen to start rebuilding.  It’s time to bring Huntingdon back to its former glory.”

It was strange for Molly to watch him slip back into the role of a Lord. Before he’d been sent to the Holy Land, back when he had simply been filling the role for his brother, he’d done only the basics of his position, though he’d done them with precision and skill. Mysteries and experiments had been his main love.  He’d led a rebellion, to be sure, rallied a group of outcasts and done it well.  But for the first time in that hall, Molly saw Lord Sherlock Holmes. 

He’d grown up.

A commotion from the main passage turned all of their heads and the sound of dozens of boots striking the stone ground grew closer.  A man dressed in black trousers and tunic with silver trimmings and a matching silver cloak strode purposefully through the great hall archway, his hand resting on the hilt of a gleaming sword.  A large group of soldiers followed.

“Sherlock Holmes!” he bellowed. 

“Oh God,” Sherlock muttered.

“What have you done to our home!”

“I took it _back_ , Mycroft!”

It had been years since Molly had seen Lord Mycroft; she would never have recognized him after so much time, but Sherlock was clearly familiar with his brother. The rest of the people in the hall scrambled to stand and give due respect by bowing to their Earl.

“What do you mean, you took it _back_?” Mycroft demanded, stopping in front of the small group.

Sherlock sighed and stood up, walking over to his brother until they stood toe to toe.

“Do you remember your steward, James Moriarty?” Sherlock asked, barely pausing to allow him time to answer before going on.  “He sent me to the Holy Land, took over the Earldom, and tried to overthrow the crown. You could say we had a bit of a _disagreement_ about that.”

Lord Mycroft let out a huff and reached for the clasp on his cloak, undoing it.

“We had heard rumors,” he admitted.  He looked his brother up and down.  “You’re all right?”

“Barely a scratch,” Sherlock said with a thin smile.

“Yes, well. Well done, brother,” Mycroft said, holding out a hand for Sherlock to take.  “Is there anything left to be done?”

“All handled,” Sherlock told him. 

“Excellent. Do let me know what sort of reward you would like, his Majesty will be more than happy to bestow his thanks,” Mycroft offered with a raise of his eyebrows, clearly used to Sherlock wanting recognition for his accomplishments.

“Funds for a wedding will do,” Sherlock said without hesitation.

Molly felt her heart jump, her hands going to her stomach.  Mycroft looked at him with utter confusion.

“Whose wedding?” he asked.

“Mine,” Sherlock stated, looking back to Molly.  She pressed her lips together, trying to keep from grinning. “To Margaretta Hooper. As soon as possible.”

* * *

 

He was tired. They all were. Tired and sore and desperate for peace. After reuniting with his brother and insuring everyone’s comfort, Sherlock called for a horse, taking Molly and pointing them towards his old manor home.  It would be their home, together, soon enough and all he wanted was to retreat to the solitude of the manor with her.

Molly nestled against him as they rode, her head resting along his shoulder as his arms encircled her. He could feel her body drooping, and knew she was fighting sleep.

“What happened?” she asked quietly.

“When?”

“You know when,” she said.  “On the balcony. He tried to…I saw it.”

Sherlock’s mind offered up images of Moriarty pulling the dagger from beneath his cloak, his movements swift.  His arm still stung where the blade had grazed him.  She would surely worry over him when she eventually saw the wound, though it really was nothing.

“It turned out that James was not as averse to fighting as he led everyone to believe,” he told her.  “I saw a way to stop him for good.  He hit the water first. I landed upon him and the dagger…its position did not favor him.”

She did not reply, as he suspected she wouldn’t. 

When they reached the manor house, they were greeted by a small group gathered outside the door. Martha, Sally, and Bill stood waiting, desperate to hear what had transpired since he’d sent them to the home after the fight was won.  Of course, he’d barely begun to answer their questions when Martha had started pushing them towards separate chambers, telling them she had prepared hot baths and fresh clothes.  Sally had only smirked at Sherlock being ordered around, shaking her head as she headed towards the kitchen with a promise of good food for supper.  He made a note in his mind to set aside funds for a bakery for her in town.  Huntingdon had long been without a proper baker and he suspected she would enjoy running her own shop.

To his surprise, he found that very little had been changed about his home. There were personal affects of Moran’s that would need to be gotten rid of, but the manor was a welcome comfort overall.  He had every intention to burn the bedding Moran had slept in during his occupation of Sherlock’s chambers replacing it all with a new mattress and linens. For the time being, the chamber Molly had been shuffled off to would do, even if he did encounter resistance from Martha in the hall.

“People will talk, Sherlock,” she warned him, looking disapprovingly at his attire – a simple tunic that just reached his knees.

“Who, exactly? You’re the only one watching me enter her chambers.  We’re to be married soon anyway.”

“Oh,” Martha huffed, trying not to appear too pleased as she fluttered off down the stairs. “Young love, God bless it.”

Molly was tucked into the bed when he entered the room, dressed in a white nightgown, her hair shining and still damp from her bath.  She smiled warmly as he walked towards her.

“Was she right to try to stop me?” he asked, pausing at the end of the bed. “Are you scandalized to be sharing your bed as an unmarried woman?”

“No,” she said, shaking her head gently.  “Why should I be, after…”

Sherlock cleared his throat, feeling warmth spread through his body at the memories of two nights prior.  Had it really only been such a short amount of time?  So much had happened, it felt like weeks since he’d been with her.

“The light of day can change minds,” he said, offering her the chance to do just that.

In answer to his words, Molly sat up, pushing the blankets back in invitation. He needed no other sign, rounding the side of the bed and joining her quickly.  After months of sleeping on nothing but hard ground, the bed was like Heaven…but it was the arms of the woman that wrapped around him, pulling him into her soft embrace, that made him feel truly enraptured.  The scent of rosewater lingered on her skin and he breathed in deeply, resting his body over hers and feeling the weight of two years of trials lifting off of him.  Her hand smoothed across his back, dipping under the fresh linen of his tunic to run her fingers over his skin. 

Though he was close to exhaustion, his body responded to her touch.  Lifting himself onto his forearm, he gently cradled her face with his hand, dropping kisses onto her mouth and deepening each one until she gasped into his mouth, her body pressing insistently against his. His hands traveled down her thighs, finding the end of the nightgown and tugging.  Molly sat up, allowing him to ease the gown from her body. Her hair spilled over her shoulders when the fabric had been pulled over her head and he marveled once again at the beauty in front of him. 

Lowering his head, he brought his mouth to her breast and kissed, suckled as she whimpered, holding her tightly.  When he brought his mouth back up to kiss her lips, she gripped his tunic and pulled it off, sliding her hands over the expanse of his chest and sending shivers down his back.

“My Lord,” she sighed as he nipped and kissed her neck.

“No need for formalities,” he told her with a smile.

“But you are my Lord.  Soon, my husband,” she told him, pulling his face up so that she could look at him. “Things I am happy to call you.”

“Then you…you are my Lady.  My wife,” he murmured, kissing each cheek after each endearment.  “And I love you.”

“As I love you,” she said softly.

Pressing her back into the pillows, Sherlock kissed her deeply and settled himself between her thighs.

“Oh, my Molly, I would stay like this with you for all of time,” he said breathlessly.

“I would keep you,” she replied, coaxing him closer and burying her fingers in his hair as he pressed into her, her welcoming warmth enveloping and undoing him.

Not caring if the others in the house heard, he made love to her as though they had all the time in the world, pulling sighs and gasps and shouts of pleasure from her throat as he memorized every inch of her body.  He memorized the way her fingers gripped his shoulders, the feel of her lips on his throat that left him dizzy with want, the way her body tightened around him, sending him crashing into elation. 

He pulled her against his chest when he rolled to his side, unwilling to let her go as they both drifted into sleep, slipping into the deepest rest he’d had in years.

* * *

 

The celebration of the birth of their son was the largest Mycroft had ever allowed. All of Huntingdon was given a holiday and a gift of five shillings went to each household.  A month after the birth, the castle held a feast. It was resplendent in its presentation for, although he liked to pretend he couldn’t be bothered with something as uninteresting as a baby, Mycroft was a proud uncle from the start.

Molly beamed as she held her son at the head table, determined to enjoy the festivities if only for a short time before retiring to the privacy of the chambers Mycroft had prepared for her.  She was happy to be in the castle under different circumstances, surrounded by love and joy.

“You’d think a new prince had been born,” Lestrade said, peering down at the infant in Molly’s arms.  “All this extravagance.”

“Don’t you listen to him,” Molly cooed at the baby.  “You are a prince, and no one can tell me differently.”

“He’s a fine boy,” John congratulated Sherlock, handing him a mug of ale.

“He’s got his father’s lungs, I see,” Mary laughed as the baby started to wail.

“Oh dear,” Molly said, holding her son closer as she stood up.  “I think we may have to leave our own party early.”

They bid everyone goodnight, leaving the great hall and heading towards their rooms. Molly immediately sat upon the bed, pulling at the laces of her gown and tugging the fabric away from her breast. Once her son was settled, he calmed immediately, making contented little noises as he nursed.

Sherlock watched her, still amazed by how naturally she’d taken to motherhood. He still felt frightened half to death of being a father.

“If Mycroft never marries, he’ll be heir to all of this,” he said suddenly, his thoughts tumbling from his mouth.

Molly looked up at him and smiled.

“I hadn’t thought any different,” she said, unconcerned.  “He’ll make a fine Earl, I’m sure.”

“Even with me for a father?” Sherlock asked teasingly, sitting next to her.

“Especially with you for a father,” she told him, shifting a bit as the baby gave up on eating. She pulled her gown over her shoulder and then slid her hand back under her son to support him as she handed him over to Sherlock.  “You’ll teach him how to be noble and just.  And to stand up to those who aren’t.”

Taking his son into his arms, Sherlock felt that, at the very least, he could manage those lessons.  And a little archery.

“Well, Robert,” he said.  “You and I have a great deal to discuss when you get a bit older.  I’ll try not to bore you with all of it, it really is quite tedious being honorable.”

Molly chuckled and nudged him with her shoulder.  He turned and gazed at her, leaning down to press a kiss to her mouth.

“Thank you,” he murmured against her lips.

“For what?”

“Everything. For keeping me alive…in every way,” he explained, kissing her once more as she wrapped her arms around him, her hand joining his in cradling Robert’s head. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well I hope everyone has enjoyed reading this as much as I've enjoyed writing it! Thank you for being patient with the waits between chapters and for commenting and leaving kudos. I hope the ending was satisfying and worth the wait. Thank you again for all the encouragement to write!


End file.
